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LUMLEY'S WORKS FOR THE YOUNG. 



Eagle and the Lion and other Tales, from the Ger- 
man of Fouque, with engravings, 9d. 

Elements of Knowledge. — A short compendium of 

Useful Information for children. Beautifully printed, large type, fine en- 
gravings, cloth, 2s. 

Fables and Parables : Ancient and Modern, the most 

unexceptionable collection ever published in this country. Contents: 112 
Fables and Parables, chiefly translated, for the first time, from the German 
of Herder, Lessing, Kruminacher, Geller, Schreiber, Meissner, and others. 
Both vols, in one, 2s., cloth, gilt. 

Female Heroism, containing nineteen interesting 

Tales. New edition, cloth, gilt, 2 vols., 2s. 6d. each, or 2 in 1, gilt edges, 5s. 



FOUQIO (BARON) TALES AND ROMANCES. 

The Four Seasons. — Spring, Undine; Summer, Two 

Captains; Autumn, Aslauga's Knight ; Winter, Sintkam ; with Author's 
last Introduction, etc., cloth, 30 illustrations, in highest style of art, 6s. 

King and the Woodman. — Frontispiece, 6d. 

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Romantic Fiction ; or Twelve most beautiful of the 

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beautiful engravings, by Selous, Franklin, etc., 4s. 



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adapted, with Notes and Illustrations, by Rev. H. P. Dunstek, 2 vols., cloth 
gilt, fine illustrations by Tenniel, 7s. 

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( -erinan Edition of Zschokke. Elegantly printed, cloth, Is. 6d. 

Grossi, Marco Visconti. — An Italian Tale of the 

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Gulliver's Travels. — Dean Swift's celebrated work, 

>w for the first time presented in an entirely unexceptionable form, for 
Family Beading, cloth, very clever plates by Brown (Phiz), engraved by 
'^oper, cloth gilt, 2s. 







mna. 



FAGE 141. 



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T. RICHARDS, 37, GT. QUEEN STREET. 





In preparing this volume for the press, the object in 
view has been not only to exalt and purify the taste of 
the reader, but at the same time to amuse and instruct. 
In all real education, the cultivation of the imagination 
forms a most important, if not an essential part; and 
this cultivation is more readily carried on by a gradual 
introduction to poetry than by any other means. The 
imagination of a child is of all the faculties of his mind 
the one which is developed at the earliest period, the 
most easily affected, and consequently swayed, by good 
or evil influences. During youth, therefore, the age of 
faith, when the wild and wondrous, the terrible, as well 
all that is brightly fair, of the seen or unseen world, is 
simply and at once believed, it is most important that 
the food of the mind should be both pure and invi- 
gorating. 

And if the influence of poetry upon the mind of 
youth be thus strong, it will be scarcely less so upon 
that mind when it has attained the vigour of manhood, 
and become more familiar with the realities of the 
world. 



_ 



VI PREFACE. 

But too often, indeed, the cold calculating spirit of 
Mammon will sear and harden what was once soft, and 
genial, and " apt of belief," in the mind, and give to 
every thing but its bare value among the wiser children 
of this generation ; and thus faith will waver, and love 
of the unseen or unreal grow dead, or perhaps cease 
altogether. Still, however, where the imagination has 
in early life been rightly and not unduly affected by 
poetry, its influence more or less will be felt, even 
through years of mere worldly, selfish existence, and 
contend nobly for what is pure and worthy of belief. 

The following selections have been made almost 
entirely from the writings of our chief poets, — an ac- 
quaintance with whom should be at once the pride and 
delight of every one who claims the name of English- 
man. In reading and studying their works, he will 
gradually learn to hold communion with the mighty 
minds of old, — and joy to say, as one of the last de- 
parted among them said of his predecessors : 

" My never-failing friends are they, 
With whom I converse day by day. 
My thoughts are with the dead; with them 

I live in long-past years ; 
Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 
Partake their hopes and fears." 

Shakspere, and Goldsmith, and Wordsworth, and 
Southey, are names which we cannot but honour and 
love ; and, with the host of others whose voices, though 
dead, do yet speak to us, are worthy of far more than 



PREFACE. Vll 

mere trivial acquaintance. To know them thoroughly 
cannot, indeed, be effected by mere casual reading, 
but gradually ; as the intercourse becomes more inti- 
mate, and the disciple, from being a mere passing ac- 
quaintance, becomes a loving friend. 

A paragraph, nay a single verse of even a simple bal- 
lad, once committed to memory, may lie dormant in the 
mind for years, and yet at length awake and come back 
with all its original freshness upon the imagination. 
But one strain, it may be, will at first recur; but gentle 
thoughts and associations will one by one steal in, and 
the partial, or casual, or forgotten acquaintance will be 
renewed, and the poem of early years will be, as it were, 
the poet's hand of welcome and friendly greeting. 

All young persons learn to repeat poetry with much 
greater facility than prose. The difficulty lies in 
choosing for each what is best suited to their taste and 
habit of mind; in making, in fact, the introduction a 
pleasant one. 

Some prefer at first a simple ballad, or one, perhaps, 
of stirring and chivalrous spirit, as Chevy Chase; others 
incline rather to what is more humorous or lively, or 
descriptive. But each has his own taste ; and if it be 
searched for in a kindly manner, the teacher will have 
but little difficulty in discovering it, and supplying it 
with nourishment, until the mere inclination becomes a 
decided appetite for what is good and excellent. The 
taste of a child's mind is not always to be ascertained 
by bare catechetical inquiries, but by careful watching 



Vlll PREFACE. 

as the process of education advances, — education, that 
is, in its true sense, as distinguished from instruction. 

To assist the teacher in this work is one of the ob- 
jects of the following collection; and it is hoped that he 
will there find some extracts at least suited to all the 
various capacities and wants of his scholars. 

In Part II. will be found poems of a less easy and 
simple style than those in the former part, as well as 
some few better adapted for the more advanced pupil. 

To the more general reader, or student, it may haply 
afford some few kindred introductions, which will lead 
to a further acquaintance with, and a greater love and 
veneration for, " the wise and good of ages past." 

1847. B. G. J. 






PART I. 




SUBJECT. AUTHOR. 


PAGE 


Fairies of Caldon-Low . . . Howitt 


3 


English Landscape 




Dyer . 


6 


Dialogue of Child and Mother 




H. B. . 


8 


The Cuckoo 




Logan . 


9 


Father William . 




South ey . . 


10 


Llewellyn and his Dog 




W. Spencer . 


11 


Anecdote of a Dog 




Wordsworth 


14 


The Bramble- Flower . 




Elliot 


16 


The Armada 




Macau lay . 


17 


Answer to a Child's Question 




Coleridge 


22 


Remembrance of the Dead 




Blackwood's Mag. 


22 


Morning .... 




Milton 


24 


Meditation . 






Id. 


25 


The Deserted Village 






Goldsmith . 


27 


Bolton Priory 


. , 




Wordsworth 


30 


The Rainbow 






H. Vaughan 


32 


Sweet Sounds 






Coleridge . 


33 


The Pig 






Southey 


34 


Casabianca 






Hemans 


37 


The Ebb-Tide . 






Southey 


39 


The Country Parson . 






Goldsmith . 


40 


Burial of Sir John Moore 






Wolfe . 


42 


Lines written in his Librar 


y 




Southey 


43 



CONTENTS. 



SUBJECT. 

The Prospect 

Village Bells 

Death of the Flowers 

Tears of Scotland 

New-Year's Day 

The Trumpet . 

Life of Man 

Human Wishes . 

War of the League 

The Skies . 

We are Seven 

To certain Gold Fishes 

The New Forest . 

Hohenlinden 

The Home of the Spirit 

The Sunbeam 

The Murdered Traveller 

Henry V. and the Hermit of Dreux 

To a beautiful Female Portrait 

The Fly .... 



AUTHOR. 

Dyer . 

E. Carrington 

Bryant 

Smollett 

Alford 

Hemans 

King . 

Johnson 

Macaulay . 

Bryant 

Wordsworth 

H. Coleridge 

S.M. . 

Campbell 

Hemans 

Id. 

Bryant 

Southey 

Anon. . 

Id. 



PART II. 



To Corinna, a May Son, 

The Poet 

Lycidas 

Sleep 

Pastoral Character 

The Ruins of Rome 

Mercy 

The Father-Land 

Address to a Mummy 

Youtli and Age . 

Morning 

The Poet's Prayer 

Elegy in a Country Churchyard 



Herrick 


. 85 


Ken . 


. 86 


Milton 


. 87 


Shakspere . 


. 89 


Wordsworth 


. 90 


Dyer . 


. 91 


Shakspere . 


. 94 


Scott . 


. 95 


H. Smith . 


. M 


Coleridge 


. 98 


Beattie 


. ICO 


Wordsworth 


. 101 


Gray . 


. 101 





CONTENTS. 


SUBJECT. AUTHOR. 


Sonnet Hunt . 


Sonnet 






Keats , 


Chapman's Homer 






id. :. 


Id. . 






Id. 


Constancy . 






Herbert 


Little Children . 






Anon. . 


The Village Bells 






Cowper 


Bees . . . 






Shakspere . 


To May 






Wordsworth 


Adversity . 






Shakspere . 


Human Greatness 






. Id. 


Address of Adam and Eve 






Milton 


Unseen Watchers 






Anon. . 


Miseries of Life . 






Thomson 


Music .... 






Spenser 


Others admire 






Williams . 


Cumnor Hall 






Mickle 


Clarence's Dream 






Shakspere . 


On his Blindness 






Milton 


Discord's House . 






Spenser 


The Messiah 






Pope . 


Spell of Poetry . 






Bryant 


From his Satires 






Pope , 


Una 






Spenser 


Hymn to the Sea 






Alford 


New-Year's Day . 






Id. 


To Burns' Sons . 






Wordsworth 


Voice of the Wind 






Taylor 


Blind Man . 






Bowles 


Rural Sights and Sounds 






Cowper 


Peace .... 






Alford. 


Children's Glee . 






Southey 


National Strength 




A. Be Vere 


The World is too much with us 




Wordsworth 


Westminster Bridge . 




. Id. 


Work without Hope . 






Coleridge 



XI 



XU CONTENTS. 

SUBJECT. AUTHOR. 

Music ShaJcspere 

Time Scott . 

To a Lily flowering by Moonlight . Roscoe 

Good Morrow Gascoigne 

Fairies' Plea Hood . . 



PAGE 
158 

159 
160 
161 
164 



SACRED. 

Morning Hymn .... Ken . 

Evening Hymn . . ... . Ken . 

Midnight Hymn .... Ken 

The Advent of Christ H. CarringU 

Sunday Herbert 

Angels ....... Spenser 

The Lark and the Dove . . . Hickes 

Ps. cxxxvn Crashaw 

Ps. cxlviii Sandys 

Catechism Keble . 

Veni Creator Dryden 

From the Funeral Service . . . Southey 

Departed Saints Vaughan 

The Dead Anon. 

Sonnet Alford 



167 
169 
171 
173 
174 
176 
177 
177 
178 
180< 
182 
183 
183 
184 
1S6 




THE 






_ 



$0 \%t goofcr Rafter. 

If thou wouldst find what holiest men have sought— 

Communion with the power of poesy — 

Empty thy mind of all unquiet thought ; 

Lay bare thy spirit to the vaulting sky 

And glory of the sunshine ; go and stand 

Where nodding briers sport with the water-break, 

Or by the plashings of a moonlit creek, 

Or breast the wind upon some jutting land. 

The most unheeded things have influences 

That sink into the soul : in after hours 

We oft are tempted suddenly to dress 

The tombs of half- forgotten moods with flowers : 

Our own choice mocks us ; and the sweetest themes 

Come to us without call, — wayward as dreams. 




7 ND where have you been, 
my Mary, 
And where have you been 
from me ?" 

" I have been to the top of the Caldon-Low, 
The midsummer night to see." 

" And what did you see, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon-Low ?" 
" I saw the blithe sunshine come down, 

And I saw the merry winds blow." 

" And what did you hear, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon-Hffl?" 
M I heard the drops of the water made, 

And the green corn ears to nil." 

" Oh, tell me all, my Mary, — 
All, all that ever you know ; 



PT. I. 



THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW. 

For you must have seen the fairies 
Last night on the Caldon-Low." 

" Then take me on your knee, mother, 

And listen, mother mine : 
A hundred fairies danced last night, 

And the harpers they were nine. 

And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, 

And their dancing feet so small ; 
But, oh, the sound of their talking 

Was merrier far than all ! 
# * ■* * 

For some they played with the water, 

And rolled it down the hill ; 
1 And this/ they said, c shall speedily turn 

The poor old miller's mill. 

For there has been no water 

Ever since the first of May ; 
And a busy man shall the miller be 

By the dawning of the day. 

Oh, the miller, how he will laugh 
When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 

The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, 
Till the tears fill both his eyes !' 

And some they seized the little winds 

That sounded over the hill, 
And each put a horn into his mouth, 

And blew so sharp and shrill : 

1 And there,' said they, c ye merry winds go, 
Away from every horn ; 



THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW. i 

And these shall clear the mildew dank 
From the blind old widow's corn/ 

And then upspoke a Brownie 
With a long beard on his chin : 

* I have spun up all the tow/ said he, 
'And I want some more to spin. 

I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, 
And I want to spin another, — 

A little sheet for Mary's bed, 
And an apron for her mother.' 

And with that I could not help but laugh, 
And I laughed out loud and free ; 

And then on the top of the Caldon-Low 
There was no one left but me. 

But as I came down from the hill-top, 

I heard afar below 
How busy the jolly miller was, 

And how merry the wheel did go. 

And I peeped into the widow's field; 

And sure enough was seen 
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn 

All standing stiff and green. 

>JC *|S 2}^ rf* 

Now this is all I heard, mother, 

And all that I did see ; 
So prithee make my bed, mother, 

For I'm tired as I can be." 

MARY HOW1TT. 
,PT. I. B 2 



AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE. 

Ever charming, ever new, 

When will the landscape tire the view ! 

The fountain's fall, the river's flow, 

The woody valleys warm and low, 

The windy summit wild and high, 

Roughly rushing on the sky ; 

The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower, 

The naked rock, the shady bower ; 

The town and village, dome and farm, — 

Each give each a double charm, 

As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 

See on the mountain's southern side, 
Where the prospect opens wide, 
Where the evening gilds the tide, 
How close and small the hedges lie ! 
What streaks of meadows cross the eye ! 
A step, methinks, may pass the stream, 
So little distant dangers seem ; 
So we mistake the future's face, 
Ey'd through hope's deluding glass : 
As yon summits soft and fair, 
Clad in colours of the air, 
Which to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear ; 
Still we tread the same coarse way, — 
The present's still a cloudy day. 

Oh, may I with myself agree, 
And never covet what I see ! 



AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE?. 

Content me with an humble shade, 
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid ! 
For while our wishes wildly roll, 
We banish quiet from the soul : 
'Tis thus the busy beat the air, 
And misers gather wealth and care. 

Now, even now, my joys run high, 
As on the mountain-turf I lie ; 
While the wanton zephyr sings, 
And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
While the waters murmur deep, 
While the shepherd charms his sheep, 
While the birds unbounded fly, 
And with music fill the sky ; 
Now, even now, my joys run high. 

Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ; 
Search for Peace with all your skill ; 
Open wide the lofty door, 
Seek her on the marble floor : 
In vain you search— she is not there ; 
In vain ye search the domes of care ! 
Grass and flow'rs Quiet treads 
On the meads and mountain-heads, 
Along with Pleasure close allied, 
Ever by each other's side ; 
And often by the murmuring rill 
Hears the thrush, while all is still 
Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 



ft. I. 



DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD. 

" Oh, tell me about that bright, bright star ; 
I have watch' d it long, and it seems so far, 
And yet so near ; oh, tell to me 
How this wonderful thing may be !" 

" Thy question seems simple, my darling child" 
(Then answered the lady with voice so mild) ; 
"Yet, dear one, I cannot tell to thee, 
How this wonderful thing may be ; 

I see the star, and so dost thou, 
Twinkling (as ever it twinkleth) now ; 
But how, or why, it twinkleth so, 
Nor I, nor thou, my child, may know. 

We see its beauty is very bright, — 
That it adds new beauty to beautiful night ; 
And we know that He hath fixed it there, 
The God who heareth thine evening prayer. 

And so we know it is very meet 
That we with love that star should greet ; 
As it looketh down from its home above 
To lead our soul to the Father of love. 

I know but little, my gentle child" 
(Thus spoke the lady with voice so mild) : 
" I am a child in things so high 
As the wonders of earth, and air, and sky. 

But I will teach thee all I can, 

And then when thou growest to be a man, 



ODE TO THE CUCKOO. V 

Thou wilt know that the depth of a mother's love 
Is wondrous and strange as that star above. 

Though she may be numbered with the dead, 
Whose hand now rests on thy shining head, 
Her spirit shall look from the land afar, 
And yet seem near thee like that bright star." 

H. B. 



ODE TO THE CUCKOO. 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now Heaven repairs thy ruraJ seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear ; 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the rolling year ? 

Delightful visitant ! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers, 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood 

To pull the primrose gay, 
Starts the new voice of Spring to hear, 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom, 
Thou fliest thy vocal vale ; 

PT. I. 



10 FATHER WILLIAM. 

An annual guest in other lands, 
Another Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear, 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No winter in thy year. 

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 

We'd make with joyful wing 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Companions of the Spring. 



LOGAN. 



FATHER WILLIAM. 

" You are old, Father William," the young man 
cried, 

" The few locks which are left you are grey ; 
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man ; 

Now tell me the reason, I pray." 

"In the days of my youth," Father Wilham replied, 
" I remembered that youth would fly fast, 

And abused not my health and my vigour at first, 
That I never might need them at last." 

" You are old, Father William," the young man 
cried, 

"And pleasures with youth pass away ; 
And yet you lament not the days that are gone ; 

Now tell me the reason, I pray." 



LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG. 11 

" In the days of my youth," Father William replied, 
" I remember' d that youth could not last ; 

I thought of the future whatever I did, 
That I never might grieve for the past." 

"You are old, Father William," the young man 
" And life must be hastening away ; [cried, 

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ; 
Now tell me the reason, I pray." 

"lain cheerful, young man," Father William re- 
"Let the cause thy attention engage ; [plied, 

In the days of my youth I remember' d my God, 
And He hath not forgotten my age." 



LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG. 

The spearman heard the bugle sound, 
And cheerly smil'd the morn ; 

And many a brach 1 and many a hound 
Attend Llewellyn's horn. 

And still he blew a louder blast. 
And gave a louder cheer, — 

" Come, Gelert, why art thou the last 
Llewellyn's horn to hear? 

Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam, 

The flower of all his race ? 
So true, so brave — a lamb at home, 

A lion in the chase !" 

1 A species of dog which hunts by scent. 

PT. I. 



12 LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG. 

That day Llewellyn little loved 

The chase of hart or hare ; 
And scant and small the booty proved, 

For Gelert was not there. 

Unpleas'd Llewellyn homeward hied, 

When, near the portal-seat, 
His truant Gelert he espied, 

Bounding his lord to greet. 

But when he gain'd the castle- door, 

Aghast the chieftain stood ; 
The hound was smear' d with gouts of gore, 

His lips and fangs ran blood ! 

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, 

Unused such looks to meet ; 
His favourite check' d his joyful guise, 

And crouch' d and lick'd his feet. 

Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd, 

(And on went Gelert too), 
And still where'er his eyes were cast, 

Fresh blood-gouts shock' d his view ! 

O'erturned, his infant's bed he found, 

The blood-stain' d cover rent ; 
And all around the walls and ground 

With recent blood besprent. 

He call'd his child — no voice replied ; 

He search' d with terror wild : 
Blood ! blood ! he found on ev'ry side, 

But nowhere found the child ! 



LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG. 13 

" Hell-hound ! by thee my child's devour' d !" 

The frantic father cried ; 
And to the hilt his vengeful sword 

He plunged in Gelert's side ! 

His suppliant, as to earth he fell, 

No pity could impart ; 
But still his Gelert's dying yell 

Pass'd heavy o'er his heart. 

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, 

Some slumberer waken' d nigh : 
What words the parent's joy can tell 

To hear his infant cry ! 

Conceal' d beneath a mangled heap, 

His hurried search had miss'd, 
All glowing from his rosy sleep, 

His cherub boy he kiss'd ! 

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread : 

But the same couch beneath 
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead — 

Tremendous still in death ! 

Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain ! 

For now the truth was clear — 
The gallant hound the wolf had slain, 

To save Llewellyn's heir. 

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe : 

" Best of thy kind, adieu ! 
The frantic deed which laid thee low 

This heart shall ever rue," 

PT. I. C 



14 INCIDENT OF A 

And now a gallant tomb they raise, 
With costly sculpture deck'd ; 

And marble, storied with his praise, 
Doth Gelert's bones protect. 

Here never could the spearman pass, 

Or forester, unmoved; 
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass 

Llewellyn's sorrow proved. 

And here he hung his horn and spear ; 

And oft, as evening fell, 
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear 

Poor Gelert's dying yell. 



INCIDENT CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG. 

On his morning rounds the master 

Goes to learn how all things fare ; 

Searches pasture after pasture, 

Sheep and cattle eyes with care ; 

And for silence and for talk 

He hath comrades in his walk ; 

Four dogs, each pair of different breed, 

Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed. 

See, a hare before them started : 
Off they fly in earnest chase ; 
Every dog is eager-hearted, 
All the four are in the race : 



FAVOURITE DOG 15 

And the hare whom they pursue 
Hath an instinct what to do ; 
Her hope is near : no turn she makes ; 
But like an arrow to the river takes. 

Deep the river was, and crusted 

Thinly by a one night's frost ; 

But the nimble hare hath trusted 

To the ice, and safely crost ; 

She hath crost, and without heed 

All are following at full speed, 

When, lo, the ice, so thinly spread, 

Breaks — and the greyhound, Dart, is overhead ! 

Better fate have Prince and Swallow — 

See them cleaving to the sport ! 

Music hath no heart to follow, 

Little Music she stops short. 

She hath neither wish nor heart ; 

Hers is now another part ; 

A loving creature she and brave, 

And fondly strives her struggling friend to save. 

From the brink her paws she stretches, 

Very hands as you would say ! 

And afflicting moans she fetches, 

As she breaks the ice away. 

For herself she hath no fears, — 

Him alone she sees and hears, — 

Makes efforts and complainings, nor gives o'er 

Until her fellow sank and re-appeared no more. 

WORDSWORTH. 



PT. I. 



16 



TO THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER. 

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 

Wild bramble of the brake ! 
So put thou forth thy small white rose, — 

I love it for his sake. 

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 

O'er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show 

Thy satin-threaded flowers : 

For dull the eye, the heart is dull, 

That cannot feel how fair, 
Amid all beauty beautiful, 

Thy tender blossoms are. 

How delicate thy gauzy frill ! 

How rich thy branchy stem ! 
How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 

And thou sing'st hymns to them ! 

While silent showers are falling slow, 

And, 'mid the general hush, 
A sweet air lifts the little bough, 

Lone whispering through the bush ! 

The primrose to the grave is gone ; 

The hawthorn-flower is dead ; 
The violet by the moss'd grey stone 

Hath laid her weary head. 



THE ARMADA. 17 

But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, 

In all their beauteous power, 
The fresh green days of life's fair spring 

And boyhood's blossomy hour. 

Scorn' d bramble of the brake ! once more 

Thou bid'st me be a boy, 
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er 

In freedom and in joy. 



THE ARMADA. 

'Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble Eng- 
land's praise ; 

I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in 
ancient days, 

When that great fleet invincible against her bore, 
in vain, 

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of 
Spain. 

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer 

day, 
There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to 

Plymouth Bay ; 
Her crew hath seen Castille's black fleet, beyond 

Aurigny's isle, 
At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many 

a mile. 
pt. i. e 2 



18 THE ARMADA. 

At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's espe- 
cial grace ; 
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her 

close in chase. 
Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along 

the wall ; 
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's 

lofty hall ; 
Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along 

the coast ; 
And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland 

many a post. 
With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old 

sheriff comes ; 
Behind him march the halberdiers, before him 

sound the drums ; 
His yeomen, round the market-cross, make clear 

an ample space, 
For there behoves him to set up the standard of 

her Grace. 
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance 

the bells, 
As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon 

swells. 
Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient 

crown, 
And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay 

lilies down. 
So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that I 

famed Picard field, 
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's 
eagle-shield. 



THE ARMADA. 19 

So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he 

tinned to bay, 
And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the 

princely hunters lay. 
Ho ! strike the flag-staff deep, sir knight : ho ! 

scatter flowers, fair maids : 
Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, 

draw your blades : 
Thou sun, shine on her joyously — ye breezes, waft 

her wide ; 
Our glorious Semper Eadem — the banner of our 

pride. 
I The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that ban- 
ner's massy fold ; 
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty 

scroll of gold ; 
Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the. 

purple sea, — 
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er 

again shall be. 
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn 

to Milford Bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright and busy as 

the day ; 
For swift to east and swift to west the warning 

radiance spread ; 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone — it shone 

on Beachy Head. 
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each 

southern shire, 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twink- 
ling points of fire ; 

FT. I. 



20 THE ARMADA. 

The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glitter- 
ing v/aves, — 
The rugged miners poured to war from Men dip's 

sunless caves. 
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, 

the fiery herald flew ; 
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the 

rangers of Beaulieu. 
Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out 

from Bristol town, 
And ere the day three hundred horse had met on 

Clifton down ; 
The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked forth into 

the night, 
And sawo'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of 

blood-red light. 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death 

like silence broke, 
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal 

city woke. 
At once on all her stately gates arose the answer* 

ing fires ; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reel- 
ing spires ; 
From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the 

voice of fear ; 
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back 

a louder cheer : 
And from the furthest wards was heard the rush 

of hurrying feet, 
And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed 

down each roaring street ; 



THE ARMADA. 21 

And broader still became the blaze, and louder 

still the din, 
As fast from every village round the horse came 

spurring in : 
And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the 

warlike errand went, 
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant 

squires of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those 

bright couriers forth ; 
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they 

started for the north ; 
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they 

bounded still : 
All night from tower to tower they sprang — they 

sprang from hill to hill : 
Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's 

rocky dales — 
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy 

hills of Yfales — 
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Mal- 
vern's lonely height — 
Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's 

crest of light — 
Till bread and fierce the star came forth on Ely's 

stately fane, 
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the 

boundless plain ; 
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Line Jn 

sent, 
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide 

vale of Trent ; 

PT. I. 



22 REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. 

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt' s 

embattled pile, 
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers 

of Carlisle. 

MACAULAY. 



ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 

Do you ask what the Birds say.? The sparrow, 

the dove, 
The linnet, and thrush say, " I love and I love !" 
In the winter they're silent, — the wind is so 

strong — 
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud 

song. 
But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm 

weather, 
And singing and loving — all come back together. 
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
The green fields below him, the blue sky abo^e, 
That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings 

he— 
" I love my love, and my love loves me !" 

S. T. COLERIDGE. 



REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. 



Thy memory as a spell 

Of love comes o'er my mind, 
As dew upon the purple bell, 

As perfume on the wind, 



REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. 23 

As music on the sea, 

As sunshine on the river ; 
So hath it always been to me, 

So shall it be for ever. 

I hear thy voice in dreams 

Upon me softly call, 
Like echo of the mountain streams 

In sportive waterfall. 
I see thy form as when 

Thou wert a living thing, 
And blossom' d in the eyes of men 

Like any flower of spring. 

Thy soul to heaven hath fled, 

From earthly thraldom free j 
Yet 'tis not as the dead 

That thou appear' st to me : 
In slumber I behold 

Thy form as when on earth \ 
Thy locks of waving gold, 

Thy sapphire eye of mirth. 

I hear in solitude 

The prattle kind and free 
Thou uttered' st in joyful mood 

While seated on my knee. 
So strong each vision seems, 

My spirit that doth fill, 
I think not they are dreams, 

But that thou livest still. 

blackwood's magazine. 



24 



MORNING IN THE COUNTRY. 

To hear the lark begin his flight, 
And singing, startle the dull night 
From his watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good morrow, 
Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine : 
"While the cock, with lively din, 
Scatters th' rear of darkness thin ; 
And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before ; 
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 
From the side of some hoar hill, 
Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
Sometime walking, not unseen, 
By hedgerow elms or hillocks green, 
Right against the eastern gate, 
Where the great sun begins his state ; 
Rob'd in flames and amber bright, 
The clouds in thousand liv'ries dight : 
While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrow' d land ; 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe ; 
And the mower whets his scythe ; 
And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 



MEDITATION. 25 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 

Whilst the landscape round it measures, — 

Russet lawns and fallows grey, 

Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 

Mountains, on whose barren breast 

The lab'ring clouds do often rest ; 

Meadows trim, with daisies pied ; 

Shallows, brooks, and rivers wide : 

Towers and battlements it sees, 

Bosom' d high in tufted trees ; 

Where perhaps some beauty lies, 

The cynosure of neighboring eyes. 

Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes 

From betwixt two aged oaks ; 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, 

Are at their sav'ry dinner set, 

Of herbs and other country messes, 

Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses : 

And then in haste her bower she leaves, 

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 

Or, if the earlier season lead, 

To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 



MEDITATION. 

When the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves, 
And shadows brown, that sylvan loves, 

PT. I. D 



26 MEDITATION. 

Of pine or monumental oak ; 

Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, 

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, 

Or fright them from their hallow' d haunt. 

There in close covert, by some brook, 

Where no profaner eye may look, 

Hide me from day's garish eye : 

While the bee, with honied thigh, 

That at her flow'ry work doth sing, 

And the waters murmuring, 

With such concert as they keep, 

Entice the dewy-feather 'd sleep ; 

And let some strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his wings in airy stream 

Of lively portraiture display'd, 

Softly on my eyelids laid. 

And as T wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath, 

Sent by some spirit to mortals, good, 

Or th' unseen genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloister's pale, 
And love the high embowed roof 
With antique pillars massy proof, 
And storied windows richly dight, 
Casting a dim religious light : 
There let the peeling organ blow 
To the full-voiced quire below, 
In service high and anthems clear, 
As may with sweetness through mine ear 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Dissolve me into ecstacies, 

And bring all heaven before mine eyes ! 

And may, at last, my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
The hairy gown and mossy cell, 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth shew, 
And every herb that sips the dew ; 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain : 
These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer' d the lab' ring 

swain, 
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting Summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd : 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth when ev'ry sport could please ; 
How often have I loiter' d o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness en dear' d each scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm, 
The shelter' d cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill, 



28 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade, 
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ! 
How often have I bless' d the comiDg day, 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labour free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree : 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old survey' d ; 
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round : 
And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. 

n» »1» «T» *{» 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain : 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But choked with sedges works its weary way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; 
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
# * * # 






THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 29 

Sweet was the sound when oft, at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came soften' d from below ; 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring 

wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind : 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
| No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
But all the blooming flush of life is fled : 
All but yon widow' d solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring • 
The wretched matron forced in age for bread 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn : 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

GOLDSMITH. 



PT. I. D"2 



so 

THE FORCE OF PRAYER*; 

OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. 

% ©ratn'ttott. 

" What is good for a bootless bene V 9 
Y/ith these dark words begins my tale ; 

And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring 
When prayer is of no avail ? 

" What is good for a bootless bene V 9 

The falconer to the lady said ; 
And she made answer, " Endless sorrow P' 

For she knew that her son was dead. 

•She knew it by the falconer's words, 

And from the look of the falconer's eye ; 

And from the love which was in her soul 
For her youthful Eomilly. 

Young Romilly through Barden woods 

Is ranging high and low ; 
And holds a greyhound in a leash 

To let slip on buck or doe. 

The pair have reached that fearful chasm, 

How tempting to bestride ! 
For lordly Wharf is there pent in 

With rocks on either side. 

This striding place is called the Strid, 
A name which it took of yore : 



THE FORCE OF PEAYER. 31 

A thousand years it hath borne that name, 
And shall a thousand more. 

And hither is young Eomilly come, 

And what may now forbid 
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 

Shall bound across The Strid ? 

He sprang in glee, — for what cared he 

That the river was strong and the rocks were 
steep ? — 

But the greyhound in the leash hung back, 
And check' d him in his leap. 

The boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
And strangled by a merciless force, 

For never more was young Eomilly seen, 
Till he rose a lifeless corse. 

Now there is stillness in the vale, 

And deep, unspeaking sorrow : 
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 

A name more sad than Yarrow. 

If for a lover the lady wept, 

A solace she might borrow 
From Death and from the passion of Death, — 

Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 

She weeps not for the wedding-day, 

Which was to be to-morrow ; 
Her hope was a further-looking hope, 

And hers is a mother's sorrow. 

FT. i. 



32 THE RAINBOW. 

He was a tree that stood alone., 

And proudly did its branches wave ; 

And the root of this delightful tree 
Was in her husband's grave ! 

Long, long in darkness did she sit, 

And her first words were, " Let there be 

In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
A stately priory." 

The stately priory was reared ; 

And Wharf, as he moved along, 
To matins joined a mournful voice > 

Nor failed at even- song. 

And the lady prayed in heaviness 

That looked not for relief ; 
But slowly did her succour come, 

And a patience to her grief. 

Oh, there is never sorrow of heart 

That shall lack a timely end, 
If but to God we turn, and ask 

Of Him to be our Friend ! 

WORDSWORTH. 



THE RAINBOW. 

Still young and fine ! but what is still in view 
We slight as old and soiled though fresh and new ; 
How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye 
Thy burning flaming arch did first descry ; 



SWEET SOUNDS. 33 

When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, 

The youthful world's grey fathers, in one knot 

Did with intentive looks watch every hour 

For thy new light, and trembled at each shower. 

When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and 

fair, 
Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air ; 
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours 
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. 

Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie 
Of thy Lord's hand, the object of His eye ! 
When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 
Distant and low, I can in thine see Him 
Who looks upon thee from His glorious throne, 
And minds the covenant betwixt all and one. 

HENRY VAUGHAN. 



SWEET SOUNDS. 

Around, around flew each sweet sound, 

Then darted to the sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 

Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 

I heard the skylark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seem'd to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoning ! 

PT. I. 



L 



34 THE PIG. 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 

Now like a lonely flute, 
And now it is an angel's song, 

That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon — 

A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singe th a quiet tune. 

CONCLUSION. 

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou wedding guest ; 

He prayeth well who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast : 

He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 

For the dear God, who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all. 



COLERIDGE. 

(Ancient Mariner.) 



THE PIG. 

% tolloqutal ^oem. 

Jacob, I do not love to see thy nose 
Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig. 
It would be well, my friend, if we like him 



THE PIG. 35 

Were perfect in our kind ! And why despise 
The sow-born grunter ? . . . He is obstinate, 
Thou answerest ; ugly, and the filthiest beast 
That banquets upon offal. Now, I pray you, 
Hear the pig's counsel. 

Is he obstinate ? 
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words, 
By sophist sounds. A democratic beast, 
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek 
Their profit, and not his. He hath not learnt 
That pigs were made for man, — born to be 

brawn' d 
And baconised ; that he must please to give 
Just what his gracious masters please to take ; 
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave 
For self-defence, the general privilege ; 
Perhaps, . . . hark, Jacob, dost thou hear that 

horn ? 
Woe to the young posterity of Pork ! 
Their enemy's at hand. 

Again. Thou say'st 
The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him ! 
Those eyes have taught the lover flattery. 
His face,- — nay, Jacob, Jacob, were it fair 
To judge a lady in her dishabille ? 
Fancy it drest, and with saltpetre rouged. 
Behold his tail, my friend ; with curls like that 
I The wanton hop marries her stately spouse : 
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair 
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. 
And what is beauty, but the aptitude 



36 THE PIG. 

Of parts harmonious ? give thy fancy scope, 
And thou wilt find that no imagined change 
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end 
The starry glory of the peacock's pride ; 
Give him the swan's white breast ; for his horn- 
hoofs 
Shape such a foot and ancle as the waves 
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss, 
When Venus from the enamoured sea arose. . , . 
Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him ! 
All alteration man could think would mar 
His pig-perfection. 

The last charge : — he lives 
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him 
With noble and right -reverend precedents, 
And shew by sanction of authority 
That 'tis a very honourable thing 
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest 
On better ground the unanswerable defence. 
The pig is a philosopher, who knows 
No prejudice. Dirt? Jacob, — what is dirt? 
If matter, . . . why the delicate dish that tempts 
An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel 
That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more. 
If matter be not, but, as sages say, 
Spirit is all, and all things visible 
Are one, the infinitely modified ; 
Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire 
Wherein he stands knee-deep. 

And there ! that breeze 
Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile 



CASABIANCA. 37 

That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom' d field 
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise. 

SOUTHEY. 



CASABIANCA. 

Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the 
Orient, remained at his post, in the battle of the Nile, after the 
ship had taken lire, and all the guns had been abandoned. He 
perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had 
reached the powder. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 

Whence all but he had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud though childlike form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go, 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud, " Say, father, say, 

If yet my task is done !" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

PT. I. E 



CASABIANCA. 

" Speak, father !" once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! 
And," — but the booming shots replied, 
And fast the flames rolFd on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
And look'd from that lone post of death 

In still yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

<f My father, must I stay ?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapp'd the ship in splendour wild, 

They caught the flag en high, 
And stream' d above the gallant child 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder-sound 

The boy, — oh, where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strew' d the sea ! 

With mast and helm and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part ; 

But the noblest thing which perished there 
Was that young and faithful heart ! 

MRS. HEMANS. 



39 



THE EBB-TIDE, 

Slowly thy flowing tide 
Came in, old Avon ! scarcely did mine eyes, 
As watchfully I roam'd thy greenwood side, 

Perceive its gentle rise. 

"With many a stroke and strong 
The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, 
Yet little way they made, though labouring long, 

Between thy winding shores. 

Now down thine ebbing tide 
The unlabour'd boat glides rapidly along ; 
The solitary helmsman sits to guide, 

And sings an idle song. 

Now o'er the rocks that lay 
So silent late, the shallow current roars ; 
Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way, 

Through wider-spreading shores. 

Avon ! I gaze and know 
The lesson emblem' d in thy varying way ; 
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, 

So rapidly decay. 

Kingdoms which long have stood, 
And slow to strength and power attained at last, 
Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood 

They ebb to ruin fast. 

PT. I. 



40 THE COUNTRY PARSON. 

Thus like thy flow appears 
Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage ; 
Alas, how hurryingly the ebbing years 

They hasten to old age ! 



THE COUNTRY PARSON. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden simTd, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose : 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wished to change, his 

place : 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashion' d to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learn' d to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wand' rings, but reliev'd their pain. 
The long-remember d beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim' d kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away, 



THE COUNTRY PARSON. 41 

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder' d his crutch, and shew'd how fields were 

won. 
Pleas' d with his guests, the good man learn' d to 

glow, 
And quite forget their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
But, in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watch' d and wept, he pray'd and felt for all : 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt her new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way, 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay' d, 
The rev'rend champion stood. At Iris control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last fait' ring accents whisper' d praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn' d the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail' d with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain' d to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
I With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children follow' d, with endearing wile, 
And pluck' d his gown, to share the good man's 

smile. 
ft. i. e 2 



42 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

His ready smile a parent's warmth express' d, 
Their welfare pleas' d him, and their cares dis- 
tress' d ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 

storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 

spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

GOLDSMITH. 



BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

"We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sod with our bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And our lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin confined his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him : 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 



WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR IN HIS LIBRARY. 43 

But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the d-ead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow' d his narrow bed, 
And smooth' d down his lowly pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 
his head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring : 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
Of the enemy suddenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR IN HIS LIBRARY. 

My days among the Dead are past ; 

Around me I behold. 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 

The mighty minds of old : 

FT. I. 



44 THE PROSPECT. 

My never-failing friends are they, 
With whom I commune day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal, 

And seek relief in woe ; 
And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe, 
My cheeks have often been bedew' d 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them 

I live in long-past years, 
Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 

Partake their hopes and fears ; 
And from their lessons seek and find 
Instruction with an humble mind. 

My hopes are with the Dead ; anon 

My place with them wdll be ; 
And I with them shall travel on 

Through all futurity ; 
Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 
That will not perish in the dust. 



THE PROSPECT. 

Now I gain the mountain's brow, 
What a landscape lies below ! 
No clouds, no vapours intervene ; 
But the gay, the open scene, 






THE PROSPECT. 45 



Does the face of nature shew 
In all the hues of heaven's bow, 
And, swelling to embrace the light, 
Spreads around beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the cliffs arise, 
Proudly tow' ring in the skies ; 
Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires ; 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow mountain-heads, 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 
And glitters on the broken rocks. 

Below me trees unnumber'd rise, 
Beautiful in various dyes ; 
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 
The yellow beech, the sable yew, 
The slender fir, that taper grows, 
The sturdy oak, with broad-spread boughs * 
And beyond, the purple grove, 
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love, 
Gaudy as th' op'ning dawn, 
Lies along a level lawn ; 
On which a dark hill, steep and high, 
Holds and charms the wand' ring eye : 
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood ; 
His sides are cloth' d with flowing wood ; 
And ancient towers crown his brow, 
Tnat cast an awful look below ; 
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, 
And with her arms from falling keeps : 

FT. I. 



46 THE PROSPECT. 

So both a safety from the wind 
On mutual dependence find ! 

'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; 
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad ; 
And there the fox securely feeds ; 
And there the pois'nous adder breeds, 
Conceal' d in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 
While, ever and anon, there fall 
Huge heaps of hoary, moulder'd wall. 
Yet time has seen — that lifts the low, 
And level lays the lofty brow — 
Has seen this broken pile complete, 
Big with the vanity of state : 
But transient is the smile of fate ! 
A little rule, a little sway, 
A sunbeam in a winter's day, 
Is all the proud and mighty have 
Between the cradle and the grave. 

And see the rivers, how they run 
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun ! 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep — 
Like human life to endless sleep : 
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, 
To instruct our wand' ring thought ; 
Thus she dresses green and gay, 
To disperse our cares away. 



47 



VILLAGE BELLS. 

Oh, merry are the village bells that sound with 

soothing chime 
From the dim old tower, grown grey beneath the 

shadowy touch of time ; [air, 

And gaily are they borne along upon the summer 
Telling of bridal happiness to the youthful and 

the fair ; 
They give a murmur of delight to earth, and sky, 

and seas, 
That mingles with the running streams, and floats 

upon the breeze. 

'Tis past, the bridal glee is past, those echoing 
peals are o'er ; 

But the sweet, the holy Sabbath comes — we hear 
them now once more, 

With a message from the heavens of love, a voice 
that speaks to all ; 

Unto the temple of our God, unto His shrine they 
call. 

Whether your home's in halls of state, or by the 
lowly dells, 

Come forth and listen to the sounds of the hal- 
lowed Sabbath bells ! 

I Ye tuneful records, yours it is to watch the pace 

of time, 
And mark the footfalls of each year with deep and 

soothing chime ; 

iPT. I. 



48 VILLAGE BELLS. 

Coming at midnight's silent hour, when all is dim 

and drear, 
'Tis yours to breathe the last farewell of the sad 

expiring year ; 
And while we bid its hopes and fears, its fleeting 

hours adieu, 
'Tis yours to hail with cheerful voice the birthday 

of the new. 



And yet once more your music breaks upon my 

listening ear, 
Though not the gaily sounding notes we love so 

well to hear ; 
Changed is your message to the heart, your joyous 

tone is fled ; 
Ye speak to us of buried hopes, a requiem for the 

dead ! 
Some home to-day is desolate, a soul from earth 

is free. 
Mortal, the knell thou nearest now full soon may 

toll for thee ! 

changeful bells, that swell' d but now the tide 

of human bliss, 
What ministers of grief ye seem, in such an hour 

as this ! 
Say, is your knell a sorrowing one, for the lovely 

doomed to die, 
Youth's early blush upon their cheek, its radiance 

in their eye ? 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 49 

Or do ye mourn in mockery for the beings frail 

as fair, 
Whose lives, like golden evening clouds, have 

melted into air ? 

Yet such, alas, is human life ; woe for the haughty 

breath ! 
To-day in health and power 'tis raised, to-morrow 

stilled in death. 
One voice proclaims our joy and grief, our wishes, 

hopes, and fears ; 
j The eye that brightly oe^ras to-day, to-morrow 

dims with tears. 
, A few short years, a few brief suns, in earthly 

homes we dwell, 
Then life with all its dreams shall be but as that 

passing bell, 

E. CARRIKGTGIS. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the 

year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 

brown and sere ; 
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither' d 

leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbits' 

tread. 

PT. I. F 



50 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the 
shrub the jay, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all 
the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
lately sprung and stood, 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister- 
hood? 



Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race 

of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and 

good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie, — but the cold 

November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely 

ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perish' d long 

ago, 
And the wild rose and the orchis died amid the 

summer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in 

the wood, 
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn 

beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as 

falls the plague on men ; 
And the brightness of their smile was gone from 

upland glade and glen. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 51 

And now when comes the calm mild day, as still 

such days will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 

winter home, — 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though 

all the trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the 

rill,— 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose 

fragrance late he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the 

stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful 

beauty died, 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by 

my side ; 
In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest 

cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life 

so brief ; 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young 

friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 

flowers. 

BRYANT. 

i 



TT. I. 



52 



THE TEAKS OF SCOTLAND. 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish' d peace, thy laurels torn ! 
Thy sons, for valour long renown' d, 
Lie slaughter' d on their native ground ; 
Thy hospitable roofs no more 
Invite the stranger to the door ; 
In smoky ruins see them lie, 
The monuments of cruelty. 

The wretched owner sees afar 
His all become the prey of war ; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wife, 
Then smites his breast and curses life. 
Thy swains are famish' d on the rocks, 
Where once they fed their wanton flocks ; 
Thy ravish' d virgins shriek in vain ; 
Thy infants perish on the plain. 

What boots it, then, in every clime, 
Through the wide-spreading was e of time, 
Thy martial glor}^ crown'd with praise, 
Still shone with un diminish' d blaze? 
Thy tow' ring spirit now is broke, 
Thy neck is bended to the yoke. 
What foreign arms could never quell, 
By civil rage and rancour fell. 

The rural pipe and merry lay 

No more shall cheer the happy day ; 



THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 53 

No social scenes of gay delight 
Beguile the dreary winter night : 
No strains but those of sorrow flow, 
And nought be heard but sounds of woe, 
While the pale phantoms of the slain 
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 

baneful cause, fatal morn, 
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn ! 
The sons against their fathers stood, 
The parent shed his children's blood. 
Yet when the rage of battle ceased, 
The victor's soul was not appeased; 
The naked and forlorn must feel 
Devouring flames and murd'ring steel ! 

The pious mother doom'd to death 
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath ; 
The bleak wind whistles round her head, 
Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, 
She views the shades of night descend, 
And stretch' d beneath th 5 inclement skies, 
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

While the warm blood bedews my veins, 
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, 
Resentment of my country's fate 
Within my filial breast shall beat, 
And, spite of her insulting foe, 
My sympathising verse shall flow : 
PT. i. f 2 



54 new year's day. 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banish' d peace, thy laurels torn! 

SMOLLETT. 



NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

Rise, sons of merry England, from mountain and 

from plain, 
Let each light up his spirit, let none unmoved 

remain ; 
The morning i's before you, and glorious is the 

sun ; 
Rise up, and do your blessed work before the day 

be done. 

" Come help us, come and help us," — from the 
valley and the hill 

To the ear of God in heaven are the cries ascend- 
ing still : ■ 

The soul that vvanteth knowledge, the flesh that 
wanteth food ; — 

Arise, ye sons of England, go about doing good. 

Your hundreds and your thousands at usage and 

in purse, 
Behold a safe investment, which shall bless and 

never curse ! 
Oh, who would spend for house or land, if he 

might but from above 
Draw down the sweet and holy dew of happiness 

and love ? 



THE TRUMPET. 55 

Pour out upon the needy ones the soft and healing 

balm ; 
The storm hath not arisen yet — ye yet may keep 

the calm : 
Already mounts the darkness, — the warning wind 

is loud ; 
But ye may seek your fathers' God, and pray 

away the cloud. 

Go, throng our ancient churches, and on the holy 
floor 

Kneel humbly in your penitence among the kneel- 
ing poor ; 

Cry out at morn and even, and amid the busy day, 

" Spare, spare, Lord, Thy people ; — oh, cast us 
not away !" 

Hush down the sounds of quarrel ; let party-names 

alone ; 
Let brother join with brother, and England claim 

her own : 
In battle with the Mammon-host join peasant, 

clerk, and lord, 
Sweet charity your banner-flag, and God for all 

your word. 

ALFORD. 



THE TRUMPET. 

The trumpet's voice hath roused the land, 
Light up the beacon-pyre ; 
pt. i. 



56 THE LIFE OF MAN. 

A hundred hills have seen the brand, 

And waved the sign of fire ; 
A hundred banners to the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast ; 
And, hark, was that the sound of seas ? 

A king to war went past. 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasant by bis hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call, 

And rises from the earth ; 
The mother on her first-born son 

Looks with a boding eye ; — 
They come not back, though all be won, 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard has ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
Even for the marriage-altar crown' d 

The lover quits his bride ; — 
And all this haste and change and fear 

By earthly clarion spread, — 
How will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead ! 

MRS. HEMANS, 



THE LIFE OF MAN. 



Like to the falling of a star, 
Or as the flight of eagles are, 






THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 57 

Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning clew, 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood, 
Or bubble which on water stood, — 
Even such is man, whose borrow' d light 
Is straight called in and paid to-night. 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 
The spring entomb' d in autumn lies, 
The stream dries up, the star is shot, 
The night is past, and man forgot. 

BISHOP KING. 



THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, 

How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide. 

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 

No dangers fright him, and no labours tire : 

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 

Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain : 

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield ; 

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field. 

Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, 

And one capitulate, and one resign : 

Peace courts his hand and spreads her charms in 

vain ; 
" Think nothing gain'd," he cries, " till naught 

remain — 
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
And all be mine beneath the polar sky !" 

PT. I. 



58 THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. 

The march begins in military state, 
And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
Stern famine guards the solitary coast, 
And winter barricades the realms of frost. 
He comes — nor want nor cold his course delay : 
Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day ! 
The vanquish' d hero leaves his broken bands, 
And shews his miseries in distant lands ; 
Condemn' d a needy supplicant to wait, 
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 
But did not Chance at length her error mend? 
Did no subverted empire mark her end? 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand : 
He left the name at which the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale, 

JOHNSON. 



THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all 

glories are ; 
And glory to our sovereign liege, Prince Henry 

of Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music and 

of dance 
Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines, 

pleasant land of France ! 



THE WAR OF" THE LEAGDfi. 59 

And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city 
of the waters, 

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn- 
ing daughters ; [joy, 

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our 

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought 
thy walls annoy. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the 
chance of war ; 

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of 
Navarre. 

Oh, how our hearts were beating, when at the 

dawn of day 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long 

array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens and all its rebel peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's 

Flemish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses 

of our land, 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon 

in his hand ; 
And as on them we looked, we thought of Seine's 

empurpled flood, 
And good Coligny's hoary hair all dabbled with 

his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the 

fate of war, 
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of 

Navarre. 
pt. I. 






60 THE Wx\R OF THE LEAGUE. 

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour 

drest, 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his 

gallant crest ; [eye ; 

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was 

stern and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from 

wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout, God save 

our Lord the King ! 
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well 

he may, 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray — 
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid 

the ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of 

Navarre." 

Hurrah, the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled 

din 
Of fife, and steed, and trump and drum, and 

roaring culverin ! 
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's 

plain, 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and 

Aimayne. 
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen 

of France, 
Charge for the golden lilies now, upon them with 

the lance ! 



THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. 61 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand 

spears in rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the 

snow-white crest ; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like 

a guiding star 
Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of 

Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours ; Mayenne 

has turned his rein ; 
D'Aumale has cried for quarter ; the Flemish 

count is slain. 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before 

a Biscay gale, 
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, 

and cloven mail. 
And then we thought of vengeance, and all along 

our van, 
" Remember St. Bartholomew !" was passed from 

man to man. [my foe ; 

But out spake gentle Henry, ic No Frenchman is 
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your 

brethren go." [in war, 

Oh, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or 
As our sovereign lord King Henry, the soldier of 

Navarre ? 

Ho, mridens of Vienna ! ho, matrons of Lucerne! 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who 
never shall return. 

PT. I. G 



62 THE SKIES. 

Ho, Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy 

poor spearmen's souls ! s 
Ho, gallant nobles of the League, look that your 

arms be bright ! 
Ho, burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and 

ward to-night ! 
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God 

hath raised the slave, 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the 

valour of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy Name, from whom all 

glories are ; 
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of 

Navarre ! 

MACATJLAY. 






THE SKIES. 

Ay, gloriously thou standest there, 
Beautiful, boundless firmament, 

That, swelling wide o'er earth and air, 
And round the horizon bent, 

With thy bright vault and sapphire wall, 

Dost overhang and circle all. 

Far, far below thee, tall old trees 
Arise, and piles built up of old, 

And hills whose ancient summits freeze 
In the fierce light and cold. 



THE SKIES. G3 

The eagle soars his utmost height, 
Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. 

Thou hast thy frowns — with thee on high 
The storm has made his airy seat, 

Beyond that soft blue curtain lie 
His stores of hail and sleet ; 

Thence the consuming lightnings break, 

There the strong hurricanes awake. 

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles — 

Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern ; 

Earth sends from all her thousand isles 
A shout at their return ; 

The glory that comes down from thee 

Bathes in deep joy the land and sea. 

The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine, 

The pomp that brings and shuts the day, 

The clouds that round him change and shine, 
The airs that fan his way ; 

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there 

The meek moon walks the silent air. 

The sunny Italy may boast 

The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
And lovely round the Grecian coast 

May thy blue pillars rise ; 
I only know how fair they stand 
Around my own beloved land. 

And they are fair — a charm is theirs, 

That earth, the proud green earth has not, 
rT. i. 



64 WE ARE SEVEN. 

With all the forms, and hues, and airs 

That haunt her sweetest spot. 
We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, 
And read of Heaven's eternal year. 

Oh, when, amid the throng of men, 
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 

How willingly we turn us then 
Away from this cold earth, 

And look into thy azure breast 

For seats of innocence and rest ! 



BRYANT. 



WE ARE SEVEN. 

A simple child, 
That lightly draws its breath, 
That feels its life in ev'ry breath— 
What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage-girl ; 

She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl, 

That cluster' d round her head. 

She had a rustic woodland air, 

And she was wildly clad ; 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair — 

Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
How many may you be ?" 



WE ARE SEVEN. 65 

" How many ? seven in all," she said, 
And, wondering, look'd at me. 

" And where are they ? I pray you tell." 

She answer' d, " Seven are we ; 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea ; 

Two of us in the churchyard lie, 

My sister and my brother ; 
And in the churchyard cottage I 

Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea ; 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 

Sweet maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little maid reply, 

" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the churchyard He, 

Beneath the churchyard tree." 

" You run about, my little maid, 

Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the churchyard laid, 

Then are ye only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 

The little maid replied ; 
," Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
And they are side by side. 
vt. i. g 2 



66 WE ARE SEVEN. 

My stockings there I often knit, 

My 'kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 

And sit and sing to them. 

And often after sunset, sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer. 
And eat my supper there. 

The first that died was little Jane ; 

In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God releas'd her of her pain, 

And then she went away. 

So in the churchyard she was laid ; 

And when the grass was dry, 
Together round her grave we play'd, 

My brother John and I. 

And when the ground was white with snow, 

And I could run and slide, 
My brother John was forced to go ; 

And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you, then," said I, 

" If they two are in heaven ?" 
The little maiden did reply, 

" master, we are seven !" 

" But they are dead, those two are dead, 
Their spirits are in heaven :" 



ADDRESS TO GOLD FISHES. 67 

'Twas throwing words away ; for still 
The little maid would have her will, 
And said, " Nay, we are seven !" 

WORDSWORTH. 



ADDRESS TO CERTAIN GOLD FISHES. 

Hestless forms of living light, 
Quiv'ring on your lucid wings, 
Cheating still the curious sight 
With a thousand shadowings ; 
Various as the tints of even, 
Gorgeous as the hues of heaven 
Reflected on your native streams 
In flittering, flashing, billowy gleams ! 

Harmless warriors, clad in mail 
Of silver breastplate, golden scale, — 
Mail of nature's own bestowing, 
With peaceful radiance mildly glowing. 
Fleet are ye as fleetest galley, 
Or pirate rover sent from Sallee ; 
Keener than the Tartar's arrow, 
Sport ye in your sea so narrow. 

Was the sun himself your sire ? 
Were ye born of vital fire ? 
Or of the shade of golden flowers, 
Such as we fetch from eastern bowers, 
To mock this murky clime of ours ? 
Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, 
Weaving many a mystic dance : 

3PT. I. 



68 ADDRESS TO GOLD FISHES. 

Seeming still to grow in size 
When ye would elude our eyes : 
Pretty creatures ! we might deem 
Ye were happy as ye seem, — 
As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, 
As light, as loving, and as lithe, 
As gladly earnest in your play, 
As when ye gleam' d in far Cathay. 

And yet, since on this hapless earth 

There's small sincerity in mirth, 

And laughter oft is but an art 

To drown the outcry of the heart ; 

It may be that your ceaseless gambols, 

Your wheehngs, dartings, divings, rambles, 

Your restless roving round and round 

The circuit of your crystal bound — 

Is but the task of weary pain, 

An endless labour dull and vain ; 

And while your forms are gaily shining, 

Your little lives are inly pining ! 

Nay, but still I fain would dream 
That ye are happy as ye seem, 
Deck'd in Oriental pride 
By homely British fireside. 

HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 



69 



THE NEW FOREST. 



There moves a sad procession 

Across the silent vale, 
With backward-glancing eyes of grief, 

And tearful cheeks all pale. 
Scatter' d and slow, without array, 

With wavering feet they go ; 
Yet with a kind of solemn pace, 

The measur'd tread of woe. 

There women pause and tremble, 

And weep with breaking heart ; 
While men, with deeply knitted brows* 

Stride mutely on apart. 
There infants cling upon the breast, 

Their own accustom' d place ; 
i And children look up askingly 

Into each darken' d face. 

For the king has sent his soldiers, 

Who strike, and pity not : 
They have razed to the earth each smiling home, 

They have burnt each lowly cot. 
It was the ruthless Conqueror 

By whom this deed was done ; 
And yet more fierce and hard of heart 

Was Rufus, his stern son. 



So they leave each humble cottage 
Where they so long have dwelt, 

PT. I. 



70 THE NEW FOREST. 

Where morn and eve to simple prayer. 
With. thankful hearts, they knelt ; 

Places all brighten' d with the joy 
Of sweet domestic years, 

And spots made holy by the flow 
Of unforgotten tears. 

And the gardens are uprooted, 

And the walls cast down around ; 
It is all a spacious wilderness — 

The king's great hunting-ground ! 
While hopeless, homeless, shelterless, 

Those exiles wander on ; 
And most of them lie down to die 

Ere many days are gone. 

Forest ! green New Forest ! 

Home of the bird and breeze, 
With all thy soft and sweeping glades, 

And long dim aisles of trees ; 
Like some ancestral palace, 

Thou standest proud and fair ; 
Yet is each tree a monument 

To Death and lone Despair ! 

And thou, relentless tyrant ! 
Ride forth and chase the deer, 

With a heart that never melted yet- 
To pity or to fear. 

But for all these broken spirits, 
And for all these wasted homes, 

God will avenge the fatherless — 
The day of reckoning comes ! 



THE NEW FOREST. 71 

To hunt rode fierce King Rufus 

Upon a holy morn ; 
The Church had summon 3 d him to pray, 

But he held the Church in scorn. 
Sir Walter Tyrrel rode with him, 

And drew his good bow-string ; 
He drew the string to smite a deer, 

But his arrow smote the king. 

Down from his startled charger 

The death-struck monarch falls ; 
Sir Walter fled afar for fear, 

And turn'd not at his calls. 
On the spot where his strong hand had made 

So many desolate, 
He died with none to pity him — 

Such was the tyrant's fate. 

None mourn' d for cruel Rufus : 

With pomp they buried him, 
But no heart grieved beside his bier, 

No kindly eye grew dim ; 
But poor men lifted up their heads, 

And clasp' d their hands and said, 
" Thank God, the ruthless Conqueror 

And his stern son are dead !" 

Remember, oh, remember, 
Ye who shudder at my lay, 
i These cruel men were children once, 
As ye are now were they : 
They sported round a mother's seat, 
They prayed beside her knee ; 

PT. I. 



72 IIOHENLINDEST. 

She gazed into their cloudless eyes, 
And ask'd, " What will they be V s 

Alas, unhappy mothers ! 

If ye could then have known 
How crime would make each soft young heart 

As cold and hard as stone ; 
Ye would have wish'd them in their graves, 

Ere life had pass'd its spring. 
Ah, friends, keep watch upon your hearts ; — 

Sin is a fearful thing. 



HOHENLIKDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array' d, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh' d 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Ear flash' d the red artillery. 






THE HOME OF THE SPIRIT. 73 



But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow ; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, — but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 

Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 

And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ; 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

CAMPBELL. 



THE HOME OF THE SPIRIT. 

Answer me, burning stars of night, 

Where is the spirit gone, 
That past the reach of human sight, 

As a swift breeze hath flown ? 
And the stars answer' d me : "We roll 

In light and power on nigh, 
But of the never-dying soul 

Ask that which cannot die." 

PT. I. h 



THE HOME OF THE SPIRIT. 

many-toned and chainless wind, 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if thou its place can'st find, 

Far over mount and sea ? 
And the wind murmur' d in reply : 

"The blue deep I have cross' d, 
And met its barks and billows high, 

But not what thou hast lost." 

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun, 
Answer ; have ye a home for those 

Whose earthly race is run ? 
The bright clouds answer' d: "We depart, 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart, 

For that which cannot die." 

Speak, then, thou voice of God within, 

Thou of the deep low tone ; 
Answer me through life's restless din — 

Where is the spirit flown ? 
And the voice answer' d : " Be thou still 

Enough to know is given, 
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil ; 

Thine is to trust in Heaven." 

MRS. HEMANS. 



75 



THE SUNBEAM. 



Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall ; 
A joy thou art and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea : 
Sunbeam, what gift has the world like thee ? 

Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles ^ 
Thou hast touch' d with glory his thousand isles, 
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, 
And gladden' d the sailor like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest shades 
Thou art streaming on thro' their green arcades, 
And the quiv'ring leaves that have caught thy 

glow 
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. 

I look'd on the mountains ; a vapour lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array : 
Thou brakest forth, — and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot ; 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot, 
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell, 
And it laugh' d into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
A tender smile on the ruin's head. 

PT. I. 



76 THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 

Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way, 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, 
And its high pale tombs with their trophies old 
Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold. 

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, 
"Where a flower to sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Sunbeam of summer ! oh, wiiat is like thee ? 
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! — 
One thing is like thee to mortals given : 
The faith touching all things with hues of heaven. 

MRS. HEMANS. 



THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 

"When spring to woods and wastes around 
Brought bloom and joy again, 

The murder' d traveller's bones were found 
Far down a narrow glen. 

The fragrant birch above him hung 

Her tassels in the sky ; 
And many a vernal blossom sprung, 

And nodded careless by. 

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 
His hanging nest o'erhead, 



THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 77 

4nd fearless near the fatal spot 
Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away ; 

And gentle eyes for him, 
With watching many an anxious day, 

Were sorrowful and dim. 

They little knew, who lov'd him so, 

The fearful death he met, 
When shouting o'er the desert snow* 

Unarm' d and hard beset ; — 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole 

The Northern dawn was red, 
The mountain wolf and wild cat stole 

To banquet on the dead. 

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 

They dress' d the hasty bier, 
And mark'd his grave with nameless stones, 

Unmoisten'd by a tear. 

But long they look'd and fear'd and wept 

Within his distant home ; 
And dream' d and started as they slept, 

For joy that he was come. 

So long they look'd, — but never spied 

His welcome step again, 
Nor knew the fearful death he died 

Far down that narrow glen. 

BRYANT. 
\ I. H 2 



78 



KING HENRY V. AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX. 

He pass'd unquestion'd through the camp, 

Their heads the soldiers bent 
In silent reverence, or begg'd 

A blessing, as he went ; 
And so the Hermit pass'd along, 

And reach' d the royal tent. 

King Henry sat in his tent alone, 

The map before him lay : 
Fresh conquests he was planning there 

To grace the future day. 

King Henry lifted up his eyes 

The intruder to behold ; 
With reverence he the Hermit saw, 

For the holy man was old ; 
His look was gentle as a saint's, 

And yet his eye was bold. 

" Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs 
Which thou hast done this land ! 

king, repent in time ; for know 

The judgment is at hand. 

1 have past forty years of peace 

Beside the river Blaise ; 
But what a weight of woe hast thou 
Laid on my latter days ! 



KING HENRY V. AND THE HERMIT. 79 

I used to see along the stream 

The white sail sailing down, 
That wafted food in better times 

To yonder peaceful town. 

Henry, I never now behold 

The white sail sailing down : 
Famine, Disease, and Death, and thou, 

Destroy the wretched town. 

I used to hear the traveller's voice, 

As here he pass'd along ; 
Or maiden as she loiter 5 d home, 

Singing her even-song. 

No traveller's voice may now be heard, — 

In fear he hastens by ; 
But I have heard the village maid 

In vain for succour cry. 

I used to see the youths row down, 

And watch the dripping oar, 
As pleasantly their viol's tones 

Came soften' d to the shore. 

King Henry, many a blacken' d corpse 

I now see floating down ; 
Thou bloody man, repent in time, 

And leave this leaguer' d town." 

" I shall go on," King Henry cried, 
" And conquer this good land ; 

PT. I. 



80 TO A BEAUTIFUL FEMALE PORTRAIT. 

See'st thou not, Hermit, that the Lord 
Hath given it to my hand V 

The Hermit heard King Henry speak, 
And angrily look'd down ; 

His face was gentle, and for that 
More solemn was his frown. 

"What if no miracle from Heaven 
The murderer's arm control ; 

Think you for that the weight of blood 
Lies lighter on his soul? 

Thou conqueror king, repent in time, 
Or dread the coming woe ! 

For, Henry, thou hast heard the threat, 
And soon shalt feel the blow !" 

King Henry forced a careless smile, 
As the Hermit went his way : 

But Henry soon remember' d him, 
Upon his dying day. 



SOUTHET. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL FEMALE PORTRAIT. 

Art thou of earth, thou vision fair, 
Can aught of this frail life be there ? 
Shar'st thou man's fearful destiny, — 
To hope, to dread, to sin, and die ? 
No ! frailty cannot dwell with thee ; 
Guile cannot taint thy purity. 



THE FLY. 81 

That calm celestial loveliness 
Bespeaks, though clad in earthly dress, 
A sinless soul, from sorrow free, 
That soars above humanity. 

Still silent ? and hath never word 
Of answer from those lips been heard ? 
Was it a breath the canvass stirred ? — 
Alas ! thou'rt but a phantasy ; 
A sweet illusive mockery ! 
And mortal hand hath wrought a spell 
On which my eyes would fondly dwell, 
And dream of things that may not be, 
Till thou from earthly thraldom free 
Hast put on immortality. 



THE FLY. 

Nay, do not wantonly destroy 
That harmless fly, my thoughtless boy. 
His busy hum that vexes thee 
Is but an idler's minstrelsy ; 
Unconscious of his threaten' d doom 
He gaily courses round the room ; 
Fearless alights upon thy book, 
Nor fears thy irritated look. 
A gay voluptuary, he 
Devotes his life to revelry ; 
Anticipates no future ill, 
But sips and gambols where he will. 
pt. i. 



82 THE FLY. 

Yet the same Power that bade the sun 

His daily course of glory run ; 

Who aye sustains each rolling sphere, 

And guides them in their vast career, — 

E'en to the lowly fly has given 

To share with man the light of Heaven. 

Go, busy trifler, sport thine hour, 
Though brief as life of summer flower ; 
The wintry blast that strips the tree 
Shall bring the closing hour to thee. 
But mark me, boy ! the heedless fly 
This useful lesson may supply ; 
Like him, the youth who gives his day 
To pleasure's soft insidious sway, 
Voluptuous joys his only care, 
Will find a lurking poison there ; 
Too late will mourn his wasted bloom, 
And shroud his blossoms in the tomb. 





f Ifleiri), 



Part II. 




I ET up, get up for shame ; the blooming 
Mora 

Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-quilted colours through the air ; 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east 
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest, 
Nay not so much as out of bed ; 
When all the birds have matins said, 
And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin, 
Nay profanation, to keep in, 

PT. II. i 






86 THE POET. 

Whenas a thousand virgins on this day 
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May. 

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen 

To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and 

green, 

And sweet as Flora. Take no care 

For jewels for your gown or hair ; 

Fear not, the leaves will strew 

Gems in abundance upon you ; 

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 

Against you come, some orient pearls unwept ; 

Come, and receive them while the light 

Hangs on the dew-locks of the night ; 

And Titan on the eastern hill 

Retires himself, or else stands still 

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in 

praying ; 
Few beads are best when once we go a-maying. 



THE POET. 

Prophets and poets were of old 
Made of the same celestial mould. 
True poets are a saint-like race, 
And with the gift receive the grace ; 
Of their own songs the virtue feel, 
Warm'd with an heav'n- enkindled zeal. 

A poet should have heat and light ; 
Of all things a capacious sight ; 



LYCIDAS. 87 

Serenity with rapture join'd ; 
Aims noble ; eloquence refined, 
Strong, modest ; sweetness to endear ; 
Expressions lively, lofty, clear. 

High thoughts ; an admirable theme ; 
For decency a chaste esteem ; 
For harmony a perfect skill ; 
Just characters of good and ill ; 
And all concenter' d — souls to please, 
Instruct, inflame, melt, calm, and ease. 

Such graces can nowhere be found 
Except on consecrated ground ; 
Where poets fix on God their thought, 
By sacred inspiration taught ; 
Where each poetic votary sings 
In heavenly strains of heavenly things. 



LYCIDAS. 

Yet once more, ye laurels, and once more, 

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, 

And with forced fingers rude 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year : 

Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 

Compels me to disturb your season due, 

For Lycidas is dead; dead ere his prime — 

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 

Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 

PT. II. 



SO LYCIDAS. 

Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 
Together both, ere the high lawns appear' d 
Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 
We drove afield ; and both together heard 
What time the grey fly winds her sultry horn, 
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 
T'wards heaven's descent had slop'd his westering 
wheel. 

But, the heavy change, now thou art gone, — 
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
Thee, shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 
And all their echoes, mourn ; 
The willows and the hazel-copses green 
Shall now no more be seen 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
As killing as the canker to the rose, 
Or tain-worm to the weanling-herds that graze, 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear 
When first the white-thorn blows, — 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 

But weep not, woful shepherds, weep no more 
For Lycidas, your sorrow is not dead, 
Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor. 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, 



SLEEP. 89 

And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 
For Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high 
Through the dear might of Him who walk'd the 

waves, 
Where other groves and other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love : 
There entertain him all the saints above, 
In solemn troops and sweet societies 
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 

MILTON. 



SLEEP. 

How many thousand of my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep ! sleep, gentle sleep, 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
That thou no more wilt weigh mine eyelids down, 
And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? 
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, 
And hush' d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, 
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, 
Under the canopies of costly state, 
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? 
thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile 
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch 

PT. II. i 2 



90 PASTORAL CHARACTER. 

A watch-case or a common 'larum^bell ? 

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 

Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 

In cradle of the rude tempestuous surge ; 

And in the visitation of the winds, 

Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 

With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds, 

That with the burly death itself awakes : 

Canst thou, partial sleep, give thy repose 

To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, 

And in the calmest and most stillest night, 

With all appliances and means to boot, 

Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low, — lie down ! 

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 

SHAKSPERE. 



PASTORAL CHARACTER. 

A genial, hearth, a hospitable board, 

And a refm'd rusticity, belong 

To the neat mansion, where, his flock among, 
The learned pastor dwells, their watchful lord. 
Though meek and patient as a sheathed sword ; 

Though pride's least lurking thought appear a 
wrong 

To human kind ; though peace be on his tongue, 
Gentleness in his heart ; — can earth afford 

Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free, 

As when, array' d in Christ's authority, 



THE RUINS OF ROME. 91 

He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand, 
Conjures, implores, and labours all he can 

For re-subjecting to Divine command 
The stubborn spirit of rebellious man ! 

WORDSWORTH. 



THE RUINS OF ROME. 

'Twas there, beneath a fig-tree's umbrage broad, 
Th' astonish' d swains with rev' rent awe beheld 
Thee, Quirinus, and thy brother twin, 
Pressing the teat within a monster's grasp, 
Sportive ; while oft the gaunt and rugged wolf 
Turn'd her stretch' d neck and form'd your tender 

limbs. 
So taught of Jove, e'en the fell savage fed 
Your sacred infancies : your virtues, toils, 
The conquests, glories of th' Ausonian state, 
Wrapp'd in their sacred seeds. Each kindred 

soul, 
Robust and stout, ye grapple to your hearts ; 
And little Rome appears. Her cots arise ; 
Green twigs of osier weave the slender walls ; 
Green rushes spread the roofs ; and here and there 
Opens beneath the rock the gloomy cave. 
Elate with joy, Etruscan Tiber views 
Her spreading scenes enamelling his wave, 
Her huts and hollow dells, and flocks and herds, 
And gathering swains ; and rolls his yellow car 
To Neptune's courts with more majestic train. 

TT. II. 



92 THE RUINS OF ROME. 

Her speedy growth alarm' d the states around, 
Jealous ; yet soon, by wondrous virtue won, 
They sink into her bosom. From the plough 
Rose her dictators; fought, o'ercame, return' d, — 
Yes, to the plough return' d, and hail'd their peers : 
For them no private pomp, no household state, 
The public only swell' d the gen'rous breast. 
Who has not heard the Fabian heroes sung ? 
Dentatus' scars, or Mutius' naming hand ? 
How Manlius sav'd the Capitol? the choice 
Of steady Regulus ? As yet they stood 
Simple of life ; as yet seducing wealth 
Was unexplored, and shame of poverty 
Yet unimagin'd. Shine not all the fields 
With various fruitage ? Murmur not the brooks 
Along the fiow'ry valleys? They, content, 
Feasted at nature's hand, indelicate, 
Blithe in their easy taste, and only sought 
To know their duties — that their only strife, 
Their gen'rous strife, and greatly to perform. 
They, through all shapes of peril and of pain, 
Intent on honour, dar'd in thickest death 
To snatch the glorious deed. Nor Trebia quell' d, 
Nor Thrasymene, nor Cannse's bloody field, 
Their dauntless courage : storming Hannibal 
In vain the thunder of the battle roll'd ; 
The thunder of the battle they return' d 
Back on his Punic shores, till Carthage fell, 
And danger fled afar. The city gleam' d 
With precious spoils : alas, prosperity ! 
Ah, baneful state I Yet ebb'd not all their strength 



" 



THE RUIN'S OF ROME. 93 

In soft luxurious pleasures : proud desire 
Of boundless sway, and feverish thirst of gold, 
Rous' d them again to battle. Beauteous Greece, 
Torn from her joys, in vain, with languid arm, 
Half-rais'd her rusty shield. Nor could avail 
The sword of Dacia, nor the Parthian dart ; 
Nor yet the car of that fam'd British chief, 
Which seven brave years, beneath the doubtless 

wing 
Of vict'ry, dreadful roil'd its grinding wheels 
Over the bloody war : the Roman arms 
Triumph' d till Fame was silent of their foes. 
And now the world unrivalTd they enjoy'd 
In proud security : the crested helm, 
The plaited greave and corslet, hung unbrac'd ; 
Nor clank 9 d their arms, the spear and sounding 

shield, 
But on the glittering trophy, to the wind. 

Dissolv'd in ease and soft delights they lie, 
Till every sun annoys, and every wind 
Has chilling force, and every rain offends. 
For now the frame no more is girt with strength 
Masculine, nor, in the lustiness of heart, 
Laughs at the winter-storm and summer-beam, 
Superior to their rage : enfeebling vice 
Withers each nerve, and opens every pore 
To painful feeling. 

But see, along the North the tempest swells 
O'er the rough Alps, and darkens all their snows ! 
Sudden the Goth and Vandal, dreadful names ! 
Rush as the breach of waters, whelming all 

PT. II. 



94 MERCY. 

Their domes, their villas ; down the festive piles^ 

Down fall their Parian porches, gilded baths, 

And roll before the storm in clouds of dust. 

Vain end of human strength, of human skill, 

Conquest and triumph, and domain and pomp, 

And ease and luxury ! luxury ! 

Bane of elated life, of affluent states, 

What dreary change, what ruin is not thine ! 

How doth thy bowl intoxicate the mind ! 

To the soft entrance of thy rosy cave, 

How dost thou lure the fortunate and great ! 

Dreadful attraction ! while behind thee gapes 

Th' unfathomable gulf where Asshur lies 

O'er whelm' d, forgotten ; and high-boasting Cham, 

And Elam's haughty pomp, and beauteous Greece, 

And the great queen of earth, imperial Rome ! 



MERCY. 

The quality of mercy is not strain'd : 

It droppeth as the gentle dew from heaven 

Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless' d ; 

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 

? Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes 

The throned monarch better than his crown : 

His sceptre shews the force of temporal power, 

Th' attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 

But mercy is above this sceptred sway : 



THE FATHER-LAND. 95 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; 

It is an attribute of God himself; 

And earthly power doth then shew likest God's 

When mercy seasons justice. 

SHAKSPERE 



THE FATHER-LAND. 

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

" This is my own, my native land V 9 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, 
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd 

From wand' ring on a foreign strand ? 
If such there be, go, mark him well ; 
For him no minstrel-raptures swell ; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concenter' d all in self, 
Living shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung. 
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. 

Caledonia, stern and wild, 
Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
Land of the mountain and the flood ! 
Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 
Can e'er untie the filial band 
That knits me to thy rugged strand ? 



96 ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. 

Still as I view each well-known scene, 

Think what is now, and what hath been, 

Seems as to me of all bereft, 

Sole friends thy woods and streams are left ; 

And thus I love them better still, 

E'en in extremity of ill. 

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, 

Though none should guide my feeble way ; 

Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 

Although it chill my wither' d cheek ; 

Still lay my head by Teviot-stone, 

Though there, forgotten and alone, 

The bard may draw his parting groan. 

SCOTT. 



ADDRESS TO A MUMMY IN BELZONI'S 
EXHIBITION. 

And thou hast walked about (how strange 
story !) 

In Thebes' streets three thousand years ago, 
"When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 

And time had not begun to overthrow 
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 
Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 

Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dumby ; 
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its 
tune; 



ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. 97 

Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, 

mummy ! 
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon. 1 
Not like their ghosts or disembodied creatures, 
But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and 

features. 

Tell us, — for doubtless thou can'st recollect, — 
To whom we should assign the Sphinx's fame ? 

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 

Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer ? 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, 
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; 

Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat; 

Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass ; 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great temple's dedication. 

Still silent, incommunicative elf! 

Art sworn to secrecy ? — then keep thy vows ; 
But prithee tell us something of thyself; 

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumber'd, 
What thou hast seen, — what strange adventures 
number' d? 

1 " Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon." 

Shakspeue. 

PT. II. K 



98 yOTJTH AND AGE. 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 
We have, above ground, seen some strange 
mutations ; 

The Eoman empire has begun and ended, 

New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations, 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd, 
The nature of thy private life unfold ; 

A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, I 
And tears adown that dusky cheek have roll'd : 

Have children climb'd those knees, and kiss'd 
that face f ! 

What was thy name and station, age and race ? 

Statue of flesh ! immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 

And standest undecay'd within our presence, 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, ' 
When the last trump shall thrill thee with its! 



warning. 



HORACE SMITH. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 



Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 
Where hope clung feeding, like a bee, — 
Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
With nature, hope, and poesy, 



YOUTH AND AGE. 99 

When I was young ! 
When I was young ? — Ah, woful when ! 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt now and then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands, 
This body that does me grievous wrong, 
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands, 
How lightly then it flash' d along ; 
Like those trim skiffs unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
When youth and I lived in't together. 

Flowers are lovely ; love is flower-like ; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
Oh, the joys that came down shower-like 
Of friendship, love, and liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old ? — Ah, woful ere ! 
Which tells me, youth's no longer here ! 

youth ! for years so many and sweet 
'Tis known that thou and I were one ; 
I'll think it but a fond conceit — 

It cannot be, that thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : — 
And thou wert aye a masker bold. 
What strange disguise hast now put on, 
To make believe that thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips, 
This drooping gait, this altered size : 

PT. II. 



100 



MORNING. 



But spring- tide blossoms on thy lips, 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but thought ; so think I will, 
That youth and I are housemates still. 

S. T. COLERIDGE. 



MORNING. 

But who the melodies of morn can tell ? 

The wild brook babbling down the mountain's 

side ; 
The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid 

sings ; 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and 

hark ! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon 

rings ; 
Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd 

springs ; 
Slow tells the village-clock the drowsy hour ; 
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 



THE POET'S PRAYER. 101 

Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour. 

BEATTIE. 



THE POET'S PRAYER. 

Hail to the crown by freedom shap'd, to gird 
An English sovereign's brow ! and to the throne 
Whereon he sits ! whose deep foundations lie 
In veneration and the people's love ; 
j Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 

Hail to the state of England ! And conjoin 
"With this a salutation as devout 
Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church ; 
Founded in truth, by blood of martyrdom 
Cemented, by the hands of wisdom rear'd 
In beauty of holiness, with order'd pomp, 
Decent and unreprov'd. The voice that greets 
The majesty of both shall pray for both, 
That, mutually protected and sustain'd, 
They may endure long as the sea surrounds 
This favour d land, or sunshine warms her soil. 

And oh, ye swelling hills and spacious plains, 
Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers, 
And spires whose "silent finger points to heaven;" 
Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
Of ancient minster, lifted above the cloud 
Of the dense air which town or city breeds, 
To intercept the sun's glad beams ! may ne'er 
! That true succession fail of English hearts, 

PT. II. k 2 



102 THE POET'S PRAYER. 

Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive 
What in those structures ye possess 
Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
Of pious sentiment diffus'd afar, 
And human charity, and social love. 

Thus never shall the indignities of time 
Approach their reverend graces unoppos'd ; 
Nor shall the elements be free to hurt 
Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
Of bigot zeal madly to overturn. 
And if the devastating hand of war 
Spare them, they shall continue to bestow 
Upon the throng' d abodes of busy men 
(Deprav'd, and ever prone to fill their minds 
Exclusively with transitory things) 
An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 
Of sweet civility on rustic wilds. 

The poet, fostering for his native land 
Such hope, entreats that servants may abound 
Of those pure altars worthy ; ministers 
Detach'd from pleasure ; to the love of gain 
Superior ; unsusceptible of pride, 
And by ambitious longings undisturb'd : 
Men whose delight is where their duty leads 
Or fixes them ; whose least distinguished day 
Shines with some portion of that heav'nly lustre 
Which makes the Sabbath lovely in the sight 
Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. 

WORDSWORTH. 



103 



ELEGY. 



The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wand' ring near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Hark ! how the sacred calm that breathes around 
Bids ev'ry fierce tumultuous passion cease, 

In still small accents whisp'ring from the ground 
A grateful earnest of eternal peace. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring 
heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

rx. ir. 



104 ELEGY. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp o£ power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike th' inevitable hour ; 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long - drawn aisle and fretted 
vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death 1 



ELEGY. 105 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

«!• «?» «J» n* 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command ; 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise ; 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes — 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes con- 
fined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide; 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame ; 
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learn' d to stray ; 

PT. II. 



106 ELEGY. 

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

"With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
deck'd, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd 
Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign' d, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires : 
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries ; 

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate ; 

Haply some hoary-headed swain shall say, 
" Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 



ELEGY. 107 

There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots on high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

Him have we seen the greenwood side along, 
While o'er the heath we hied, our labour done, 

Oft as the woodlark piped her farewell song. 
With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, 

Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

One morn I miss'd him on the "custom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree : 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : 

The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the churchyard path we saw him 
borne : 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth 3 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

PT. II. 



108 AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere- 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 

He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear ; 

He gain'd from heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a 
friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode — 

(Where they alike in trembling hope repose) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, 

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 

An angel came to us, and we could bear 

To see him issue from the silent air 

At evening in our room, and bend on ours 

His divine eyes, — and bring us from his bowers 

News of dear friends and children who have never 

Been dead indeed — as we shall know for ever. 

Alas ! we think not what we daily see 

About our hearths, angels that are to be, 

Or may be if they will, and we prepare 

Their souls and ours to meet in happy air, — 

A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings 

In unison with ours, waiting for future wings. 



109 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S 
HOMER. 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen : 
Round many western islands have I been, 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne ; 
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken, 
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



FROM CHAPMAN'S TRANSLATION OF HOMER. 

Iliad L 

&5e Banquet. 

The youths crown'd cups with wine 
Drank off and fill'd to all again : that day was 

held divine, 
Consumed in pseans to the sun ; who heard with 

pleased ear ; 
When whose bright chariot stoop'd to sea, and 

twilight hid the clear, 

PT. II. l 



110 nestor's speech. 

All soundly on their cables slept ev'n till the night 

was worn : 
And when the lady of the light, the rosy-finger'd 

morn 
Rose from the hills, all fresh arose and to the 

camp retired, 
While Phoebus with a foreright wind their bark 

inspir'd, 

Iliad IT. 
lister's gpmlj on tlje 23ream of Agamemnon. 

" Princes and councillors of Greece, if any should 

relate 
This vision but the king himself, it might be held 

a tale, 
And move the rather our retreat : but since our 

general 
Affirms he saw it, hold it true ; and all our best 

means make 
To arm our army." This speech used he first the 

council brake. 
The other sceptre-bearing states arose too and 

obey'd 
The people's victor. Being abroad, the earth was 

overlaid 
With fleckers to them that came forth ; as when 

of frequent bees, 
Swarms rise out of a hollow rock, repairing the 

degrees 



CONSTANCY. Ill 

Of their egression endlessly ; with ever rising new 
From forth their sweet nest ; as their store, still 

as it faded, grew, 
And never would cease sending forth her clusters 

to the spring, 
They still crowd out so ; this flock here, that 

there, belabouring 
The loaded flowers ; so from the ships and tents 

the army's store 
Troop'd to these princes, and the court, along th' 

unmeasur'd shore. 

g. chapman, 1580. 



CONSTANCY. 

Who is the honest man ? 
He that doth still and strongly good pursue ; 
To God, his neighbour, and himself most true : 

Whom neither force nor fawning can 
Unpin, or wrench from giving all their due. 

Whose honesty is not 
So loose or easy that a ruffling wind 
Can blow away, or, glittering, look it blind. 

Who rides his sure and even trot, 
While the world now rides by, now lags behind. 

Who, when great trials come, 
Nor seeks nor shuns them, but does calmly stay, 
Till he the thing and the example weigh ; 

PT. II. 



112 LITTLE CHILDREN, 

All being brought into a sum, 
What place or person calls for, he doth pay. 

Whom none can work or woo 
To use in any thing a trick or sleight, 
For above all things he abhors deceit. 

His words, and works, and fashions too, 
All of a piece, and all are clear and straight. 

Who never melts or thaws 
At close temptations. When the day is done 
His goodness sets not, but in dark can run. 

The sun to others writeth laws, 
And is their virtue. Virtue is his sun. 

HERBERT. 



LITTLE CHILDREN. 

Sporting through the forest wide ; 
Playing by the water-side ; 
Wandering o'er the heathy fells ; 
Down within the woodland dells ; 
All among the mountains wild, 
Dwelleth many a little child ! 
In the baron's hall of pride ; 
By the poor man's dull fireside ; 
Mid the mighty, mid the mean, 
Little children may be seen ; 
Like the flowers that spring up fair, 
Bright, and countless, every where ! 



THE VILLAGE BELLS. 113 

In the far isles of the main ; 
In the desert's lone domain ; 
In the savage mountain-glen, 
Mid the tribes of swarthy men ; 
Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone ; 
Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone 
On a league of peopled ground, 
Little children may be found ! 

Blessings on them ! they in me 
Move a kind of sympathy 
With their wishes, hopes, and fears ; 
With their laughter and their tears ; 
With their wonder, so intense, 
And their small experience ! 
Little children, not alone 
On the wide earth are ye known ; 
Mid its labours, and its cares, 
Mid its sufferings, and its snares. 
Free from sorrow, free from strife, 
In the world of love and life, 
Where no sinful thing hath trod, 
In the presence of your God, 
Spotless, blameless, glorified, 
Little children, ye abide ! 

JOURNAL OF EDUCATION. 



THE VILLAGE BELLS. 

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, 
And, as the mind is pitch' d, the ear is pleased 

FT. II. l 2 



114 THE VILLAGE BELLS. 

With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave ; 

Some chord in unison with what we hear 

Is touch' d within us, and the heart replies. 

How soft the music of those village-bells, 

Falling at intervals upon the ear 

In cadence sweet ; now dying all away, 

Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 

Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on ! 

With easy force it opens all the cells 

W T here mem'ry slept ! Wherever I have heard 

A kindred melody, the scene recurs, 

And, with it, all its pleasures and its pains. 

Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, 

That, in a few short moments, I retrace 

(As in a map the voyager his course) 

The winding of my way through many years. 

Short as in retrospect the journey seems, 

It seem'd not always short : the rugged path, 

And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, 

Mov'd many a sigh at its disheartening length : 

Yet feeling present evils, while the past 

Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, 

How readily we wish time spent revok'd, 

That we may try the ground again, where once 

(Through inexperience, as we now perceive) 

We miss'd that happiness we might have found ! 

Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend, 

A father, whose authority, in shew 

When most severe, and must' ring all its force, 

Was but the graver countenance of love : 

Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lour, 



THE COMMONWEALTH OF BEES. 115 

And utter now and then an awful voice, 
But had a blessing in its darkest frown, 
Threat' ning at once and nourishing the plant. 
We lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand 
That reared us. At a thoughtless age, allured 
By every gilded folly, we renounc'd 
His shelt'ring side, and wistfully forewent 
That converse which we now in vain regret. 
How gladly would the man recall to life 
The boy's neglected sire ! A mother too, 
The softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, 

1 Might he demand them at the gates of death. 
Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed 
The playful humour ; he could now endure, 
(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears), 
And feel a parent's presence no restraint. 
But not to understand a treasure's worth 

I Till time has stol'n away the slighted good, 
Is cause of half the poverty we feel, 
And makes the world the wilderness it is. 
The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, 
And seeking grace t' improve the prize they hold, 
Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 

COWPER. 



THE COMMONWEALTH OF BEES. 

So work the honey-bees : 
Creatures that, by a rule in nature, teach 
The art of order to a peopled kingdom. 

TT. II. 



116 TO MAY. 

They have a king, and officers of sorts, — 

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home; 

Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad ; 

Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, 

Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds ; 

Which pillage they with merry march bring home 

To the tent royal of their emperor ; 

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys 

The singing masons building roofs of gold ; 

The civil citizens kneading up the honey; 

The poor mechanic porters crowding in 

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate ; 

The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, 

Delivering o'er to executors pale 

The lazy yawning drone. 

SHAKSPERE. 



TO MAY. 

Though many suns have risen and set 

Since thou, blithe May, wert born, 
And bards who hail'd thee may forget 

Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
There are who to a birthday strain 

Confine not harp and voice, 
But evermore throughout thy reign 

Are grateful, and rejoice. 



Delicious odours; music sweet. 
Too sweet to pass away ; 



TO MAY. 117 

Oh, for a deathless song to meet 

The soul's desire — a lay, 
That, when a thousand years are told, 

Should praise thee, genial power ! 
Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 

And winter's dreariest hour. 

Earth, sea, thy presence feel — nor less 

(If yon ethereal blue 
With its soft smile the truth express,) 

The heavens have felt it too. 
The inmost heart of man, if glad, 

Partakes a livelier cheer ; 
And eyes that cannot but be sad 

Let fall a brighten' d tear. 

Since thy return, through days and weeks 

Of hope that grew by stealth, 
How many wan and faded cheeks 

Have kindled into health ! 
The old, by thee revived, have said, 

"Another year is ours ;" 
And way-worn wanderers, poorly fed, 

Have smiled upon thy flowers. 

Who tripping lisps a merry song 

Amid his playful peers ? 
The tender infant, who was long 

A prisoner of fond fears ; 
But now, when every sharp-edged blast 

Is quiet in its sheath, 
His mother leaves him free to taste 

Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 

PT. II. 



118 ADVERSITY. 

Thy help is with the weed that creeps 

Along the humblest ground ; 
No cliff so bare but on its steeps 

Thy favours may be found ; 
But most on some peculiar nook 

That our own hands have drest, 
Thou and thy train are proud to look, 

And seem to love it best. 

And yet how pleased we wander forth 

When May is whispering, " Come ! 
Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 

The happiest for your home ; 
Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread 

From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, — 
Drops on the mouldering turret's head, 

And on your turf-clad graves.' 5 

WORDSWORTH. 



ADVERSITY. 

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woodb 
More free from peril than the envious court ? 
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, — 
The seasons' difference ; as the icy fang 
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, 
Which when it bites and blows upon my body, 
E'en till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, 



VANITY OF HUMAN GHEATNESS. 119 

This is no flattery : these are counsellors 
That feelingly persuade me what I am. 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
"Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. 
And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running 

brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 

SHAKSPERE. 



VANITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS. 

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; 
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
This many summers in a sea of glory, 
• But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
At length broke under me ; and now hath left me, 
Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
lOf a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye ! 
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! 

PT, II. 



120 ADDRESS OF ADAM AND EVE. 

There is betwixt that smile that we aspire to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs and fears than wars or women have : 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again. 

SHAKSPERE. 



ADDRESS OF ADAM AND EVE TO THE DEITY. 

These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good ! 

Almighty, Thine this universal frame, 

Thus wond'rous fair, — Thyself how wond'rous, 

then ! 
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens, 
To us invisible, or dimly seen 
In these Thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
Angels ; for ye behold Him, and with songs 
And choral symphonies, day without night, 
Circle His throne rejoicing. Ye in heaven, 
On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol 
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end. 
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
If better thou belong not to the dawn, 
Sure pledge of day, that crown' st the smiling 

morn 
With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere, 
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, 



ADDRESS OF ADAM AND EVE. 121 

Acknowledge Him the greater, sound His praise 
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb' st, 
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou 

fair st. 
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st ; 
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies ; 
And ye five other wand' ring fires, that move 
In mystic dance, not without song resound 
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light. 
Air and ye elements, the eldest birth 
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix 
And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change 
Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grey, 
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
In honour to the woods' great Author rise, 
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolour'd sky, 
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers ; 
Rising or falling, still advance His praise. 
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters 

blow, 
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye 

pines, 
With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship wave. 
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow, 
Melodious murmurs warbling, tune His praise. 
Join voices all, ye living souls ; ye birds, 
That singing up to lieaven's gate ascend, 
Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise ; 

PT. II, M 



122 UNSEEN WATCHERS, 

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
The earth, and stately tread or lowly creep, 
Witness if I be silent, morn or e'en, 
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, 
Made vocal by my song, and taught His praise. 
Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still 
To give us only good ; and if the night 
Have gather' d aught of evil, or conceal' d, 
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 



UNSEEN WATCHERS. 

Is there a spot in memory's shrine 

More dear than all the rest, 
Sure 'tis where those we loved, no more 
By sin or grief oppress' d, 
Beneath the daisied turf awhile in peace do softly 

sleep, 
And flowers, dissolved in tears of dew, alone sweet 
vigils keep. 

Thither at rosy morning tide, 

Thither at sultry noon, 
But chiefly when the evening sky 
"Waits for the summer moon, 
When all is still, and not a leaf doth quiver in the 

grove, 
Thither, by paths unknown to us, sweet fancy 
loves to rove. 



UNSEEN WATCHERS. 123 

We may not trace with mortal eye 

The path of trackless thought, 
Nor ken how time and space to it 
Are but as things of nought ; 
We only know it is a boon by God to mortals 

given, 
That they, while pilgrims here on earth, might 
reach in thought e'en heaven. 

A sudden pause, a word, a look, 

Mid those whom Death hath left us, 
Summons, unbid, to instant view, 
Friends of whom he hath reft us ; 
Then by-gone scenes we trace again, and days live 

o'er again 
In tearful pleasure, though the soul shrinks from 
the pleasing pain. 

Once more we mark the well-known form 

To which so oft we've clung, 
Fancy we hear, as once we heard, 
Sweet accents from that tongue 
Now mute in death ; but like a dream, anon, at 

sudden wave 
Of Fancy's magic rod they pass, and sink into the 
grave. 

Lo ! we are standing on the mound 
Which hides the once-loved head — 

Hush ! beating heart, 'tis holy ground, 
The chambers of the dead. 

PT, II. 



124' THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 

Be still, vain thoughts ; look up, my soul, to 
heaven ; why wilt thou weep ? 

Not flowers alone, but angels, here their solemn 
vigil keep. 

They are above thee, and around 

Through all the silent air ; 
In life, unseen, they scan thy path, 
Thy way most secret share. 
In death, when mortal frame returns back to its 

native earth, 
Still are they nigh to welcome thee to an immor- 
tal birth. 



THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 

Ah, little think the gay licentious crowd, 

Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround, — . 

They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, 

And wanton, often cruel, riot waste ; 

Ah, little think they, while they dance along, 

How many feel this very moment death, 

And all the sad variety of pain ; 

How many sink in the devouring flood, 

Or more devouring flame ; how many bleed, 

By shameful variance between man and man ; 

How many pine in want and dungeon-glooms, 

Shut from the common air, and common use 

Of their own limbs ; how many drink the cup 

Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 



A DESCRIPTION OF MUSIC. 125 

Of misery ; sore pierc'd by wintry winds, 
How many shrink into the sordid hut 
Of cheerless poverty ; how many shake 
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, 
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse, — 
Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life, 
They furnish matter to the tragic Muse : 
E'en in the vale where wisdom loves to dwell, 
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd, 
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop 
In deep-retir'd distress ; how many stand 
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, 
And point the parting anguish. Thought fond 

man 
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills 
That one incessant struggle render life, 
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, — 
Vice in his high career would stand appall' d, 
And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think ; 
The conscious heart of Charity would warm, 
And her wide wish Benevolence dilate ; 
The social tear would rise, the social sigh ; 
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, 
Refining still, the social passions work. 

THOMSON. 



A DESCRIPTION OF MUSIC. 

Eftsoons they heard a most delicious sound 

Of all that mote delight a dainty ear, 

Such as at once might not on living ground, 

PT. II. m 2 



126 POETS. 

Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere. 
Right hard it was for wight which did it hear 
To read what manner music that mote be ; 
For all that pleasing is to living ear 
Was there coiisorted in one harmony — 
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree ! 

The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade, 
Their notes unto the voice attemper' d sweet ; 
Th' angelical, soft, trembling voices made 
To th' instruments divine respondence meet, 
With the base murmur of the water's fall ; 
The water's fall, with difference discreet, 
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ; 
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. 

SPENSER. 



OTHERS ADMIRE IN THEE A POET'S FIRE. 

Others admire in thee a poet's fire, 
So sweetly temper' d to a classic lyre ; 
Others, how deepest thought and wise design 
Put on harmonious beauty in each line ; 
Others, how thy sweet urn of sacred glee 
Lights earthly things with heavenly charity ; 
Others, how every turn and winding scene 
Leads to a temple in the blue serene ; 
One would to thy meek willow's lesson turn, 
One melodies of mountain streamlet learn ; 
One loves thy red November's calm decay, 
One the bright lengthening of thine April day. 






POETS, 127 

One with thee enters in the home divine 

To worship there, but not to praise thy shrine. 

'Tis sweet to note, in varying character, 

How each his bosom' d thoughts finds pictured there. 

And some condemn thee as too deep a mine., 

Where haply diamonds hid and rubies shine, 

But they upon the surface love to flit, — 

'Twere diving into Pindar's golden wit ! 

But these things other thoughts to me endear ; 

Thy book I love because thyself is there. 

And all I know of glad philosophy, 

And all I know of life's home poesy, 

And all I know of calm and healthful thought, 

And all of better wisdom Heaven hath taught, 

And all that I have seen of azure sky 

Brought forth from out a deep captivity, 

And all which through the clouds of sin and grief 

Has shed o'er life a light of sweet relief, — 

And all that I have known of cheering glow, 

That glares not but lights up our hearth below, 

And all I have of friends more dear than life, 

Calming with gentler wisdom this world's strife 

(So it hath pleased Heaven, who gave the same), — 

These all to me are link'd with thy dear name. 

Through thee, whate'er through broken clouds 

hath gleam' d, 
Through thee from Heaven these beams on me 

have stream' d. 
Therefore, when others talk, yet own I still 
Far deeper thoughts than theirs my bosom fill. 

IS. WILLIAMS. 
PT. II, 



128 



CUMNOR HALL. 



The dews of summer night did fall ; 

The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 
Silver' d the walls of Cumnor Hall, 

And many an oak that grew thereby. 

Now nought was heard beneath the skies > 
The sounds of busy life were still, 

Save an unhappy lady's sighs, 
That issued from that lonely pile. 

"Leicester!" she cried, cc is this thy love 
That thou so oft hast sworn to me, 

To leave me in this lonely grove, 
Immur'd in shameful privity f 

No more thou com'st with lover's speed 
Thy once beloved bride to see ; 

But be she 'live, or be she dead, 

I fear, stern earl, ? s the same to thee. 

Not so the usage I receiv'd 

When happy in my father's hall : 

No faithless husband then me griev'd, 
No chilling fears did me appal. 

I rose up with the cheerful morn, 

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay ; 

And like the bird that haunts the thorn, 
So merrily sung the livelong day. 






CUMNOR HALL. 129 

If that my beauty is but small, 

Amongst court ladies all despis'd — 

Why didst thou rend it from that hall 
Where, scornful earl, it well was priz'd? 

And when you first to me made suit, 
How fair I was you oft would say ; 

And, proud of conquest, pluck' d the fruit, 
Then left the blossom to decay. 

Yes, now neglected and despis'd, 
The rose is pale — the lily's dead ; 

But he that once their charms so priz'd 
Is, sure, the cause those charms are fled. 

For, know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, 
And tender love's repaid with scorn, 

The sweetest beauty will decay — 
What flow' ret can endure the storm ? 

At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, 
Where every lady 's passing rare ; 

That eastern flowers that shame the sun 
Are not so glowing, not so fair : 

Then, earl, why did'st thou leave the beds 

Where roses and where lilies vie, 
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades 

Must sicken when those gauds are by ? 

'Mong rural beauties I was one ; 

Among the fields wild flowers are fair : 
Some country swain might me have won, 

And thought my beauty passing rare. 

PT. II. 



130 CUMNOR HALL. 

But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, 
Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows ; 

Rather ambition's gilded crown 

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. 

Then, Leicester, why, again I plead — 
(The injur' d surely may repine) — 

Why didst thou wed a country-maid, 

When some fair princess might be thine ? 

Why didst thou praise my humble charms, 
And, oh, then leave them to decay ? 

Why didst thou win me to thy arms, 
Then leave me mourn the live-long day ? 

The village-maidens of the plain 

Salute me lowly as I go ; 
Envious they mark my silken train, 

Nor think a countess can have woe. 

The simple nymphs ! they little know 
How far more happy 's their estate ; 

To smile for joy — than sigh for woe ; 
To be content — than to be great. 

How far less blest am I than them, 
Daily to pine and waste with care ! 

Like the poor plant that from its stem 
Divided feels the chilling air ! 

Nor, cruel earl, can I enjoy 

The humble charms of solitude : 

Your minions proud my peace destroy, 
By sullen frowns or prating rude. 



CUM NOR HALL. 131 

Last night, as sad I chanc'd to stray, 
The village death-bell smote my ear : 

They wink'd aside, and seem'd to say, 
1 Countess, prepare ; thy end is near !' 

And now, while happy peasants sleep, 

Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; 
No one to soothe me as I weep, 

Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 

My spirits flag, my hopes decay — 

Still that dread death-bell smites my ear ; 

And many a boding seems to say, 

6 Countess, prepare ; thy end is near !' " 

Thus, sore and sad, that lady griev'd, 
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear ; 

And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
And let fall many a bitter tear. 

And ere the dawn of day appeared 
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, 

Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
And many a cry of mortal fear. 

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring ; 

An aerial voice was heard to call ; 
And thrice the raven napp'd his wiugs 

Around the towers of Cumnor Hail : 

The mastiff howl'd at village-door ; 

The oaks were shatter' d on the green : 
Woe was the hour, — for never more 

That hapless countess e'er was seen ! 

FT. II. 



132 A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. 

And in that manor now no more 
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; 

For ever since that dreary hour 
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall ! 

The village- maids, with fearful glance, 
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall, 

Nor ever lead the merry dance 

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. 

Full many a trav'ller oft hath sigh'd, 
And pensive wept the countess' fall, 

As, wand' ring onwards, he has spied 
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. 

M1CKLB. 



A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. 

Clarence's; 33ream. 

Oh, I have pass'd a miserable night, 
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights ! 
Methought that I had broken from the Tower, 
And was embark' d to cross to Burgundy ; 
And in my company my brother Glo'ster, 
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk 
Upon the hatches : thence we look'd tow'rd Eng- 
land, 
And cited up a thousand heavy times 
During the wars of York and Lancaster 
That had befallen us. As we pac'd along 
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 



A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. 133 

Methouglit that Glo'ster stumbled, and, in falling, 
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, 
Into the tumbling billows of the main. 

Lord, methouglit what pain it was to drown ! 
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! 
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks, 

A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upou ; 

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 

All scatter' d in the bottom of the sea. 

Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those holes 

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept 

(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems, 

That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, 

And mock'd the dead bones that lay scattered. — 

And then my dream was lengthen' d after life, 

And then began the tempest to my soul ! 

1 pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, 
With that grim ferryman that poets write of, 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 

The first that there did greet my stranger-soul 
YVas my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, 
Who cried aloud, "What scourge for perjury 
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?" — 
And so he vanish' d. Then came wandering by 
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 
Dabbled in blood ; and he shriek' d out aloud, 
"Clarence is come! — false, fleeting, perjur'd 

Clarence, 
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewkesbury: 

PT. II. N 



134 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments If 
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends 
Environ' d me, and howled in mine ears 
Such hideous noises, that with the very noise 
I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after, 
Could not believe but that I was in hell ; 
Such terrible impression made my dream. 

SHAKSPEliE. 



ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wk « 

And that one talent, which is death to hide, 

Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest He returning chide, — 

Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? 

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need 

Either man's work, or His own gifts : who best 

Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His 

state 
Is kingly : thousands at His bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean, without rest : 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

MII/TON. 



1S5 



DISCORD'S HOUSE. 



Hard by the gates of hell her dwelling is, 
There whereas all plagues and harmes abound. 
Which punish wicked men that walk amiss : 
It is a darksome delve farre under ground, 
With thorns and barren brakes environ'd round, 
That none the same way may out win. 
Yet many ways to enter may be found, 
But none to issue forth when one is in ; 
For discord harder is to end than to begin. 

And all within the riven walles were hung 
With ragged monuments of times fore-past, 
Of which the sad effects of discord sung : 
There were rent robes and broken sceptres plac't, 
Altars dehTd, and holy things defac't, 
Dishevered spears, and shields ytorne in twaine, 
Great cittys ransack' t, and strong castles ras't, 
Nations captived, and huge armies slain ; 
Of all which ruines there some reliques did re- 
main. 

There was the signe of antique Babylon, 
Of fatal Thebes, of Rome that reigned long, 
Of sacred Salem, and sad Ilion ; 
For memory of which on high there hong 
The golden apple (cause of all their wrong), 
For which the three faire goddesses did strive : 
There also was the name of Nimrod strong ; 

PT. II. 



136 discord's house. 

Of Alexander, and his princes five, 
Which shar'd to them the spoils which he had 
got alive. 

And there the reliques of the drunken fray 
The which among the Lapithees befell ; 
And of the bloody feast, which sent away 
So many centaurs' drunken souls to hell, 
That under great Alcides' fury fell ; 
And of the dreadful discord which did drive 
The noble Argonauts to outrage fell, 
That each of life sought other to deprive, 
All mindless of the golden fleece which made them 
strive. 

And eke of private persons many moe, 

That 'twere too long a work to count them all : 

Some of sworne friends, that did their faith 

forgo e ; 
Some of borne brethren, prov'd unnatural ; 
Some of deare lovers, foes perpetual ; — 
Witness their broken bands there to be seen, 
Their girlonds rent, their bowres dispoiled all ; 
The monuments whereof there byding been, 
As plaine as at the first, when they were fresh 

and green. 

Such was the house within : but all without, 
The barren ground was full of wicked weeds 
Which she herself had sowen all about, 
Now growen great, at first of little seeds, 
The seeds of evil words, and factious deedes ; 



THE MESSIAH. 137 

Which when to ripeness due they growen are, 
Bring forth an infinite increase, that breedes 
Tumultuous trouble, and contentious jarre, 
The which must often end in bloodshed and in 
warre. 

SPENSER. 



THE MESSIAH. 

Ye nymphs of Solyma, begin the song : 
To heav'nly themes sublimer strains belong. 
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, 
The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids, 
Delight no more. Thou, my voice inspire, 
Who touch'd Isaiah's hallo w'd lips with fire ! 

Rapt into future times, the bard begun : 
A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a Son ! 
From Jesse's root behold a Branch arise, 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies ; 
Th' ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
Ye heavens, from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower ; 
The sick and weak the healing Plant shall aid, 
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall 

fail; 
Returning justice lift aloft her scale ; 
Peace o'er the world her olive-wand extend, 
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 

FT. II. k 2 



138 THE MESSIAH. 

Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected mom ; 
Oh, spring to light ! auspicious Babe, be born ! 
See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
With all th' incense of the breathing spring ; 
See lofty Lebanon his head advance ; 
See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; 
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 
And Carmel's flow ry top perfume the skies ! 
Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers : 
Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
A God ! a God ! the vocal hills reply ; 
The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity. 
Lo, earth receiyes Him from the bending skies ; 
Sink down, ye mountains ; and, ye valleys, rise ; 
With heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay ; 
Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ! 
The Saviour comes, by ancient bards foretold ; 
Hear him, ye deaf ; and all ye blind, behold ! 
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
And on the sightless eyeball pour the day ; 
'Tis He th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear ; 
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
And leap exulting like the bounding roe : 
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear ; 
From every face He wipes off every tear. 
In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, 
And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. 
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air ; 
Explores the lost, the wand' ring sheep directs, 
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; 



THE SPELL OF POETRY. 139 

The tender lambs he raises in his arms, 
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms — 
Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage, 
The promis'd Father of the future age. 
No more shall nation against nation rise, 
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, 
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover' d o'er, 
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; 
But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end : 
Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son 
Shall finish what his short-liv'd sire begun ; 
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 
And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field. 
The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 
And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear 
New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 



THE SPELL OF POETRY. 

I broke the spell that held me long, 

The dear, dear witchery of song. 

I said, the poet's idle lore 

Shall waste my prime of years no more ; 

For poetry, though heavenly born, 

Consorts with poverty and scorn. 

I broke the spell — nor deemed its power 
Could fetter me another hour. 



140 from pope's satires. 

Ah, thoughtless ! how could T forget ? 
Its causes were around me yet ; 
For wheresoe'er I look'd, the while 
Was nature's everlasting smile. 

Still came and linger' d on my sight, 
Of flowers and stars, the bloom and light, 
And glory of the stars and sun ; — 
And these and poetry are one ; 
They ere the world had held me long 
Recall' d me to the love of song. 



FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES AD- 
DRESSED TO ARBUTHNOT EY POPE. 

Shut up the door, good John ! fatigued, I said, 
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, — I'm dead. 
The dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt, 
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out : 
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 
They rave, recite, and madden round the land. 
What walls can guard me, or what shades can 
hide? 
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they 

glide ; 
By land, by water, they renew the charge ; 
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 
No place is sacred, not the church is free. 
Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me ; 



UNA. 141 

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, 
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. 

Is there a mortal much bemused in beer, 
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, 
A clerk foredoomed his father's soul to cross, 
Who pens a stanza, when he should engross, — 
Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls 
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls ? 
All fly to Twick'nham, and in humble strain 
Apply to me to keep them, mad or vain. 
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? 
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? 
A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped ; 
If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead. 
Seized, and tied down to judge, how wretched I ; 
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie : 
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace ; 
And to be grave exceeds all power of face. 
I sit with sad civility ; I read 
With honest anguish and with aching head, 
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, 
This saving counsel, " Keep your piece nine years." 



UNA. 

Nought is there under heaven'swide hollowness 
That moves more dear compassion of the mind, 
Than beauty brought t' unworthy wretchedness 
Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks un- 
kind. 

PT. II, 



142 UNA. 

I, whether lately through her brightness blind, 
Or through allegiance and fast fealty 
Which I do owe unto all womankind, 
Feel my heart pierced with so great agony 
When such I see, that all for pity I could die. 

And now it is empassioned so deep 
For fairest Una's sake, of whom I sing, 
That my frail eyes these lines with tears do steep, 
To think how she, through guilefull handeling, 
Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, 
Though fair as ever living wight was fair, 
Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting, 
Is from her knight divorced in despair ; 
And her due loves derived to that vile witche's share. 

Yet she, most woefull lady, all this while 
Forsaken, woefull, solitary maid, 
Far from all people's press as in exile, 
In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray' d 
To seek her knight ; who, subtilly betray'd 
Through that late vision which th' enchanter 

wrought, 
Had her abandon'd : she of nought affray'd, 
Through woods and wasteness wide him daily 

sought, 
Yet wished tidings none of him unto her brought. 

One day, nigh weary of the irksome way, 
From her unhasty beast she did alight, 
And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay 
In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; 



HYMN TO THE SEA. 143 

From her fair head her fillet she undight^ 

And laid her stole aside : her angel's face* 

As the great eye of heaven, shined bright. 

And made a sunshine in the shady place , 

Did never mortal eye behold such heav'nly grace. 

It fortuned, out of the thickest wood 
A ramping lion rushed suddenly, 
Hunting full greedy after savage blood ; 
Soon as the royal virgin he did spy, 
With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, 
To have at once devour'd her tender corse : 
But to the prey whenas he drew more nigh, 
His bloody rage assuaged with remorse, 
And with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force. 

Instead thereof, he kist her weary feet, 

And lick'd her lily hands with fawning tongue ; 

As he her wronged innocence did weet. 

Oh, how can beauty master the most strong, 

And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 

SPENSER. 



HYMN TO THE SEA. 



Who shall declare the secret of thy birth, 
Thou old companion of the circling earth ? 
And having reached with keen poetic sight 
Ere beast or happy bird 
Through the vast silence stirred, 
Roll back the folded darkness of the primal night ? 

PT. II. 



144 HYMN TO THE SEA. 

Corruption-like, thou teemedst in the graves 

Of mouldering systems, with dark weltering waves 

Troubling the peace of the first mother's womb ; 

Whose ancient awful form, 

With inly-tossing storm, 
Unquiet heavings kept — a birth-place and a tomb. 

Till the life-giving Spirit moved above 
The face of the waters, with creative love 
Warming the hidden seeds of infant light : 
What time the mighty word 
Through thine abyss was heard, 
And swam from out thy deeps the young day 
heavenly bright. 

Thou and the earth, twin-sisters as they say, 

In the old prime were fashioned in one day ; 

And therefore thou delightest evermore 

With her to lie and play 

The summer hours away,- 
Curling thy loving ripples up her quiet shore. 

She is a married matron long ago, 
With nations at her side ; her milk doth flow 
Each year : but thee no husband dares to tame ; 

Thy wild will is thine own, 

Thy sole and virgin throne — 
Thy mood is ever changing — thy resolve the same. 

Sunlight and moonlight minister to thee ; — 
O'er the broad circle of the shoreless sea 



HYMN TO THE SEA. 145 

Heaven's two great lights for ever set and rise ; 
While the round vault above, 
In vast and silent love, 
Is gazing down upon thee with his hundred eyes. 

All night thou utterest forth thy solemn moan, 
Counting the weary minutes all alone ; 
Then in the morning thou dost calmly lie, 

Deep-blue, ere yet the sun 

His day-work hath begun, 
Under the opening windows of the golden sky. 

The Spirit of the mountain looks on thee 
Over an hundred hills ; quaint shadows flee 
Across thy marbled mirror ; brooding lie 

Storm-mists of infant cloud, 

With a sight-baffling shroud 
Mantling the grey-blue islands in the western sky. 

Sometimes thou liftest up thine hands on high 
Into the tempest-cloud that blurs the sky, 
Holding rough dalliance with the fitful blast, 
Whose stiff breath, whistling shrill, 
Pierces with deadly chill [mast. 

The wet crew feebly clinging to their shattered 

Foam-white along the border of the shore 
Thine onward leaping billows plunge and roar ; 
While o'er the pebbly ridges slowly glide 
Cloaked figures, dim and grey, 
Through the thick mist of spray, [tide. 

Watchers for some struck vessel in the boiling 

TT. II. o 



14c 



NEW YEAR S DAY. 



Daughter and darling of remotest eld — 
Time's childhood and Time's age thou hast beheld ; 
His arm is feeble, and his eye is dim : 
He tells old tales again — 
He wearies of long pain : — 
Thou art as at the first : thou journeyedst not 
with him. 



ALFORD. 



NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

The year is born to-day — methinks it hath 
A chilly time of it ; for down the sky 
The flaky frost-cloud stretches, and the Sun 
Lifted his large light from the Eastern plains, 
With gloomy mist-enfolded countenance, 
And garments rolled in blood. Under the haze 
Along the face of the waters, gather fast 
Sharp spikes of the fresh ice — as if the year 
That died last night had dropt down suddenly 
In his full strength of genial government, 
Prisoning the sharp breath of the Northern winds ; 
"Who now burst forth and revel unrestrained 
Over the new king's months of infancy. 

The bells rung merrily when the old year died ; 
He past away in music ; his death-sleep 
Closed on him like the slumber of a child 
When a sweet hymn in a sweet voice above him 
Takes up into its sound his gentle being. 



; 



TO THE SONS OF BURNS. 147 

And we will raise to him two monuments ; 
One where he died, and one where he lies buried ; 
One in the pealing of those midnight bells, 
Their swell and fall, and varied interchange, 
The tones that come again upon the spirit 
In years far off, mid unshaped accidents ; — 
And one in the deep quiet of the soul, 
The mingled memories of a thousand moods 
Of joy and sorrow ; — and his epitaph 
Shall be upon him — " Here lie the remains 
Of one, who was less valued while he lived, 
Than thought on when he died." 

ALFORD. 



TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 

AFTER VISITING THE TOMB OF THEIR FATHER. 

Mid crowded obelisks and urns 

I sought the untimely grave of Burns ; 

Sons of the bard, my heart still mourns 

With sorrow true ; 
And more would grieve, but that it turns 

Trembling to you ! 

Through twilight shades of good and ill 

Ye now are panting up life's hill ; 

And more than common strength and skill 

Must ye display, 
If ye would give the better will 

Its lawful sway. 

PT. II, 



148 TO THE SONS OF BUJtNS. 

Hath nature strung your nerves to bear 
Intemp' ranee with less harm, beware ! 
But if the poet's wit ye share, 

Like him can speed 
The social hour — for tenfold care 

There will be need. 

Even honest men delight will take 
To spare your failings for his sake, 
Will natter you ; — and fool and rake 

Your steps pursue, 
And of your father's name will make 

A snare for you. 

Far from their noisy haunts retire, 
And add your voices to the choir 
That sanctify the cottage fire 

With service meet ; 
There seek the glories of your sire, — 

His spirit greet. 

Or where, mid " lonely heights and hows-, 
He paid to nature tuneful vows ; 
Or wiped his honourable brows 

Bedew' d with toil, 
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs 

Upturn' d the soil: 

His judgment with benignant ray 
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; 
But ne'er to a seductive lay 

Let faith be given ; 
Nor deem that "light which leads astray 

Is light from Heaven/' 



VOICE OF THE WIND. 149 

Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; 
Be independent, generous, brave ; 
Your father such example gave, 

And such revere ; 
But be admonish' d by his grave, 

And think and fear ! 

WORDSWORTH. 



VOICE OE THE WIND. 

Constancy 
On all things works for good ; the barren breeds, 
The fluent stops, the fugitive is fixed 
By constancy. I told you, did I not, 
The story of the wind, how he himself, 
The desultory wind, was wrought upon ? 

The wind, when first he rose and went abroad 
Through the waste region, felt himself at fault, 
Wanting a voice ; and suddenly to earth 
Descended with a wafture and a swoop, 
Where, wandering volatile from kind to kind, 
He wooed the several trees to give him one. 
First, he besought the ash ; the voice she lent 
Fitfully, with a free and lashing change, 
Flung here and there its sad uncertainties : 
The aspen next ; a flutter' d frivolous twitter 
Was her sole tribute : from the willow came, 
So long as dainty summer dressed her out, 
A whispering sweetness ; but her winter note 
Was hissing, dry, and reedy : lastly, the pine 

PT. ii. o 2 



150 THE POOR BLIND MAN. 

Did he solicit, and from her he drew 
A voice so constant soft, and lowly deep, 
That there he rested, welcoming in her 
A mild memorial of the ocean-cave 
"Where he was born. 

H. TAYLOR. 



THE POOR BLIND MAN OF SALISBURY 
CATHEDRAL. 

There is a poor blind man, who, every day, 
In frost or snow, in sunshine or in rain, 
Duly as tolls the bell to the high fane, 
Explores with faltering footsteps his dark way, 
To kneel before his Maker, and to hear 
The chanted service pealing full and clear. 
Ask why, alone, in the same spot he kneels 
Through the long year ? Oh, the wide world is 

cold 
As dark to him : here he no longer feels 
His sad bereavement — faith and hope uphold 
His heart ; he feels not he is poor and blind, 
Amid th' unpitying tumult of mankind : 
His soul is in the choir above the skies, 
And songs far off of angel companies. 
Oh happy, if the rich, the vain, the proud, 
The pageant actors of the motley crowd, — 
Since life is "a poor play'r," our days a span, 
Would learn one lesson from this poor blind man. 

BOWLES. 



151 



RURAL SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. 

Youth repairs 
His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil 
Incurring short fatigue ; and though our years, 
As life declines, speed rapidly away, 
And not a year but pilfers as he goes 
Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep, 
A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees 
Their length and colour from the locks they spare, 
The elastic spring of an unwearied foot 
That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, 
That play of lungs inhaling and again 
Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes 
Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me ; 
Mine have not pilfer' d yet ; nor yet impair' d 
My relish of fair prospect ; scenes that sooth' d 
Or charm' d me young, no longer young I find 
Still soothing, and of power to charm me still. 
And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 
Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, 
Confirm' d by long experience of thy worth 
And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire, 
Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. 
Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, 
And that my raptures are not conjured up 
To serve occasions of poetic pomp, 
But genuine, and art partner of them all. 
How oft upon yon eminence our pace 



152 RURAL SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. 

Has slacken' d to a pause, and we have borne 
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it b]ew ; 
While admiration, feeding at the eye 
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene ! 
Thence with what pleasure have we just discern' d 
The distant plough slow-moving, and beside 
His labouring team that swerved not from the 

track, 
The sturdy swain diminish' d to a boy ! 
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, 
Conducts the eye along his sinuous course 
Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank, 
Stand, never overlook' d, our favourite elms, 
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut ; 
While far beyond and overthwart the stream, 
That as with molten glass inlays the vale, 
The sloping land recedes into the clouds, 
Displaying on its varied side the grace 
Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower, 
Tall spire from which the sound of cheerful bells 
Just undulates upon the listening ear ; 
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. 
Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd, 
Please daily, and whose novelty survives 
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years : 
Praise justly due to those which I describe. 
Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds, 
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 



RURAL SIGHTS AXD SOUNDS. 153 

Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 

The dash of ocean on his winding shore, 

And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; 

Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, 

And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once. 

Nor less composure waits upon the roar 

Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 

Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip 

Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall 

Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 

In matted grass, that with a livelier green 

Betrays the secret of their silent course. 

Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, 

But animated nature sweeter still, 

To soothe and satisfy the human ear. 

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 

The livelong night : nor these alone whose n*otes 

Nice-finger' d art must emulate in vain, 

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 

In still repeated circles, screaming loud, 

The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl 

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me : 

Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, 

Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, 

And only there please highly for their sake. 



PEACE. 

I have found peace in the bright earth, 
And in the sunny sky ; 

PT. II. 



154 children's glee. 

By the low voice of summer seas, 
And where streams murmur by. 

I find it in the quiet tone 

Of voices that I love ; 
By the nickering of a twilight fire, 

And in a leafless grove : 

I find it in the silent flow 

Of solitary thought, 
In calm half-meditated dreams, 

And reasonings self-taught. 

But seldom have I found such peace 

As in the soul's deep joy, 
Of passing onward free from harm 

Through every day's employ. 

If gems we seek, we only tire, 

And lift our hopes too high : 
The constant flowers that line our way 

Alone can satisfy. 

ALFORD. 



CHILDREN'S GLEE. 

It was a gladsome sight to see 
The Indian children, with what glee 

They breathed their native air of liberty. 

Food, to the weary man with toil forespent, 
Not more refreshment brings, 

Than did the forest breeze upon its wings - 



NATIONAL STRENGTH. 155 

To these true younglings of the wilderness : 
A happy sight, a sight of heart's content ! 
For blithe were they 
As swallows, wheeling in the summer sky 
At close of day ; 
As insects, when on high 
Their mazy dance they thread, 
In myriads overhead, 
Where sunbeams through the thinner foliage 
gleam, 
Or spin in rapid circles as they play, 

Where winds are still, 
Upon the surface of the unrippled stream : 
Yea, gamesome in their innocence were they 
As lambs in fragrant pasture, at their will 
The udder when to press, 
They run for hunger less 
Than joy, and very love, and wantonness. 

SOUTHEY. 



NATIONAL STRENGTH. 

What is it makes a nation truly great ? 
Her sons ; her sons alone ; not their.s, but they ! 
Glory and gold are vile as wind and clay, 
Unless the hands that grasp them consecrate. 
And what is that in man, by which a state 
Is clad in splendour like the noontide day ? 
Virtue : Dominion ebbs, and Arts betray ; 
Virtue alone abides. But what is that 

PT. II. 



156 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 

Which Virtue's self doth rest on ; that which 
yields her 

Light for her feet, and daily heavenly bread ; 

Which from demoniac pride and madness shields 
her, 

And storms that most assail the loftiest head? 

The Christian's humble faith — that faith which 
cheers 

The orphan's quivering heart, and stays the wi- 
dow's tears. 

AUBREY DE VERE. 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 

The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
Little we see in nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away — a sordid boon ! 
The sea, that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds, that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for every thing we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
A pagan, suckled in a creed out-worn ; 
So might 1, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn- 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

WORDSWORTH. 



157 

WRITTEN AT SUNRISE ON WESTMINSTER 
BRIDGE. 

Earth has not any thing to shew more fair : 

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty : 

This city now doth like a garment wear 

The beauty of the morning : silent, bare, 

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 

Open unto the fields and to the sky, 

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 

In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep ! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will : 

Ah me, the very houses seem asleep, 

And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 

WORDSWORTH. 



WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 

&ty $oet in Bespotxtetug. 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their 

lair— 
The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — 
And Winter slumbering in the open air 
Wears on his face a dream of spring ! 
And I the while the sole unbusy thing, 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 

PT. II. p 



158 MTJSIC. 

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar 

flow. 
Bloom, ye amaranths, bloom for whom ye may, 
For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! 
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll : 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my 

soul 1 
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, 
And Hope without an object cannot live. 

S. T. COLERLDGE. 



MUSIC. 

LORENZO. 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica : look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlay' d with patines of bright gold ; 
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims. 
Such harmony is in immortal souls, 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. — 
Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn, 
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, 
And draw her home with music. 



TIME. 159 

JESSICA. 

I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 

LORENZO. 

The reason is, your spirits are attentive : 
For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing 

loud, 
Which is the high condition of their blood ; 
If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound, 
Or any air of music touch their ears, 
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, 
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze 
By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet 
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and 

floods ; 
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, 
But Music for the time doth change his nature : 
The man that hath no music in himself, 
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
And his affections dark as Erebus ; 
Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. 

SHAKSPERE. 



TIME. 

" Why sitt'st thou by that ruin'd hall, 
Thou aged carle, so stern and grey ? 
Dost thou its former pride recall, 
Or ponder how it pass'd away?" 

PT. II. 



160 A LILY BY MOONLIGHT. 

" Know'st thou not me?" the deep voice cried, 
" So long enjoy'd, so oft misused; 

Alternate, in thy fickle pride, 
Desir'd, neglected, and accused ? 

Before my breath, like blazing flax, 

Man and his marvels pass away ; 
And changing empires wane and wax, 

Are founded, flourish, and decay. 

Redeem mine hours ; — the space is brief, 
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, 

And measureless thy joy or grief 

When time and thou shall part for ever !" 



TO A LILY FLOWERING BY MOONLIGHT. 

Oh, why, thou lily pale, 
Lov'st thou to blossom in the wan moonlight, 
And shed thy rich perfume upon the night? 

When all thy sisterhood, 

In silken cowl and hood, 
Screen their soft faces from the sickly gale, 
Fair-horned Cynthia wooes thy modest flower, 

And with her beaming lips 

Thy kisses cold she sips, 
For thou art aye her only paramour ; 
What time she nightly quits her starry bower, 

Trick'd in celestial light, 

And silver crescent bright. 



GOOD MORROW, 161 

Oh, ask thy vestal queen, 
If she will thee advise, 
Where in the blessed skies 
That maiden may be seen, [day, 

"Who hung, like thee, her pale head through the 
Love-sick and pining for the evening ray ; 
And lived a maiden chaste amid the folly 
Of this bad world, and died of melancholy ? 
Oh, tell me where she dwells ! 
So on thy mournful bells 
Shall Dian nightly fling 
Her tender sighs to give thee fresh perfume, 
Her pale night-lustre to enhance thy bloom, 
And find thee tears to feed thy sorrowing. 

ROSCOE. 



GOOD MORROW. 

You that have spent the silent night 

In sleep and quiet rest, 
And joy to see the cheerful light 

That riseth in the east ; 
Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart, 

Come help me now to sing ; 
Each willing wight come bear a part 

To praise the heav'nly King. 

And you whom care in prison keeps, 

Or sickness doth suppress, 
Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps, 

Or dolours do distress ; 

PT. II. p 2 



[62 GOOD MORROW. 

Yet bear a part in dolefulwise, 

Yea, think it good accord, 
And acceptable sacrifice, 

Each sprite to praise the Lord. 

The dreadful night with darksomeness 

Had overspread our light, 
And sluggish sleep with drowsiness 

Had overprest our might : 
A glass wherein you may behold 

Each storm that stops our breath ; 
Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould, 

And sleep like dreadful death. 

Yet as this dreadful night did last 

But for a little space, 
And heavenly day, now night is past, 

Doth shew his pleasant face ; 
So must we hope to see God's face 

At least in heaven on high, 
When we have chang'd this mortal place 

For immortality. 

And of such haps and heav'nly joys 

As then we hope to hold, 
All earthly sight and worldly toys 

Are tokens to behold, 
The day is like the day of doom, 

The sun the Son of man, 
The skies the heaven, the earth the tomb 

Wherein we rest till then. 



GOOD MORROW. 163 

The rainbow bending in the sky, 

Bedeck' d with sundry hues, 
Is like the seat of God on high, 

And seems to tell these news : 
That as thereby He promised 

To drown the world no more, 
So by the blood which Christ hath shed 

He will our health restore. 

The misty clouds that fall sometime, 

And overcast the skies, 
Are like to troubles of our time 

Which do but dim our eyes : 
But as such dews are dried up quite 

When Phoebus shews his face, 
So are such fancies put to flight 

When God doth guide by grace. 

The little birds which sing so sweet 

Are like the angels' voice, 
Which render God His praises meet, 

And teach us to rejoice : 
And as they more esteem that mirth 

Than dread the night's annoy, 
So must we deem our days on earth 

But hell to heavenly joy. 

Unto which joys for to attain 

God grant us all His grace, 
And send us, after worldly pain, 

In heaven to have a place ; 

FT. II. 



164 PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 

Where we may still enjoy that light 

Which never shall decay : 
Lord, for Thy mercy, lend us might 

To see that joyful day. 

GASCOIGNE. 



PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 

We are kindly things, 
And like her offspring nestle with the dove, — 
Witness these hearts embroidered on our wings 
To shew our constant patronage of love : 
We sit at even in sweet bow'rs above 
Lovers, and shake rich odours on the air 
To mingle with their sighs, and still remove 
The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear 
Their privacy, and haunt some other where. 

And we are near the mother when she sits 
Beside her infant in its wicker bed ; 
And we are in the fairy scene that flits 
Across its tender brain ; sweet dreams we shed, 
And whilst the tender little soul is fled 
Away, to sport with our young elves, the while 
We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red, 
And tickle the soft lips until they smile, 
So that their careful parents they beguile. 



$Mttl 





MORNING HYMN. 




WAKE, my soul, and with the sun 
Thy daily course of duty run ; 
Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise 
To pay thy morning sacrifice. 



Thy precious time misspent redeem ; 
Each precious day thy last esteem ; 
Improve thy talent with due care, 
For the great day thyself prepare. 

In conversation be sincere, 
Keep conscience as the noontide clear, 
Think how all-seeing God thy ways 
And all thy secret thoughts surveys. 

By influence of the light divine, 
Let thy own light to others shine ; 
Reflect all heaven's propitious rays 
In ardent love and cheerful praise. 



168 MORNING HT2MN. 

Wake, and lift thyself, my heart, 
And with the angels bear thy part, 
Who all night long unwearied sing 
High praises to th' eternal King. 

I wake, I wake ! — ye heavenly choir, 
May your devotion me inspire ; 
That I like you my age may spend, 
Like you may on my God attend. 

May I like you in God delight, 
Have all day long my God in sight, 
Perform, like you, my Maker's will — 
Oh, may I never more do ill ! 

Had I your wings, to heaven I'd fly ; 
But God shall that defect supply, 
And my soul, wing'd with warm desire, 
Shall all day long to heaven aspire. 

All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept, 
And hast refresh' d me whilst I slept. 
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake, 
I may of endless light partake. 

I would not wake, nor rise again, 
Even heaven itself I would disdain, 
Wert not Thou there to be enjoy'd, 
And I in hymns to be employ'd. 

Heaven is, dear Lord, where'er Thou art ; 
Oh, never, then, from me depart ; 
For to my soul 'tis hell to be 
But for one moment void of Thee. 



EVENING HYMN. 169 

Lord, I my vows to Thee renew ; 
Disperse my sins as morning dew ; 
Guard my first springs of thought and will, 
And with Thyself my spirit fill. 

Direct, control, suggest, this day, 

All I design, or do, or say ; 

That all my powers, with all their might, 

In Thy sole glory may unite. 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow j 
Praise Him, all creatures here below ; 
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 



EVENING HYMN. 

All praise to Thee, my God, this night, 
For all the blessings of the light ; 
Keep me, oh, keep me, King of kings, 
Beneath Thy own almighty wings ! 

Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son, 
The ill that I this day have done ; 
That with the world, myself, and Thee, 
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. 

Teach me to live, that I may dread 
The grave as little as my bed ; 
To die, that this vile body may 
Rise glorious at the awful day. 
Q 



170 EVENING HYMN. 

Oh, may my soul on Thee repose, 
And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close — 
Sleep, that may me more vig'rous make 
To serve my God when I awake. 

"When in the night I sleepless lie, 
My soul with heavenly thoughts supply ; 
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest, 
No powers of darkness me molest. 

Dull sleep ! — of sense me to deprive ; 
I am but half my time alive ; 
Thy faithful lovers, Lord, are griev'd, 
To He so long of Thee bereav'd. 

But though sleep o'er my frailty reigns, 
Let it not hold me long in chains ; 
And now and then let loose my heart, 
Till it an hallelujah dart. 

The faster sleep the senses binds, 
The more unfetter' d are our minds : 
Oh, may my soul, from matter free, 
Thy loveliness unclouded see ! 

Oh, when shall I, in endless day, 
For ever chase dark sleep away : 
And hymns with the supernal choir 
Incessant sing, and never tire ? 

Oh, may my guardian, while I sleep, 
Close to my bed his vigils keep ; 
His love angelical instil, 
Stop all the avenues of ill. 



MIDNIGHT HYMN. 171 

May he celestial joy rehearse, 

And thought to thought with me converse ; 

Or in my stead, all the night long, 

Sing to my God a grateful song. 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 
Praise Him, all creatures here below ; 
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 



MIDNIGHT HYMN. 

My God, now I from sleep awake, 

The sole possession of me take ; 

From midnight terrors me secure, 

And guard my heart from thoughts impure. 

Blest angels ! while we silent lie, 
You hallelujahs sing on high ; 
You joyful hymn the Ever-blest 
Before the throne, and never rest. 

I with your choir celestial join, 
In offering up a hymn divine : 
With you in heaven I hope to dwell, 
And bid the night and world farewell. 

My soul, when I shake off this dust, 
Lord, in Thy arms I will intrust : 
Oh, make me Thy peculiar care, 
Some mansion for my soul prepare. 



172 MIDNIGHT HYMN. 

Give me a place at Thy saints' feet, 
Or some fall'n angel's vacant seat : 
I'll strive to sing as loud as they 
Who sit above in brighter day. 

Oh, may I always ready stand, 
With my lamp burning in my hand ; 
May I in sight of heaven rejoice, 
Whene'er I hear the Bridegroom's voice. 

All praise to Thee, in light array' d, 
Who light Thy dwelling-place hast made ; 
A boundless ocean of bright beams 
From Thy ail-glorious Godhead streams. 

The sun, in its meridian height, 

Is very darkness in Thy sight : 

My soul, oh, lighten and inflame 

With thought and love of Thy great name ! 

Blest Jesu ! Thou, on heaven intent, 
Whole nights hast in devotion spent ; 
But I, frail creature, soon am tired, 
And all my zeal is soon expired. 

My soul ! how canst thou weary grow 
Of antedating bliss below, 
In sacred hymns and heavenly love, 
Which will eternal be above ? 

Shine on me, Lord ; new life impart ; 
Fresh ardours kindle in my heart : 
One ray of Thy all-quick' ning light 
Dispels the sloth and clouds of night ! 



CHRISTMAS MORNING. 173 

Lord, lest the tempter me surprise, 
Watch over Thine own sacrifice ; 
All loose, all idle thoughts cast out, 
And make my very dreams devout. 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 
Praise Him, all creatures here below ; 
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 



CHRISTMAS MORNING, 

&fje &tiiintt of ©fm'st our ILorfc. 

He might have come in regal pomp, 
With pealing of archangel' s trump, — 
And angel-blast as loud and dread 
As that which shall awake the dead : 
His lightning might have scar'd the night, 
Streaming insufferable light ; 
His thunder deep'ning peal on peal, 
Have made earth to her centre reel, 
Deep voices, such as shook with fear, 
At Sinai's base, the favour'd seer; 
The wing of whirlwind might have borne Him ; 
The trampling earthquake gone before Him : — 
He might have come, — that Holy One, 
With millions round His awful throne, 
Countless as are the sands that lie 
On burning plains of Araby ; 
q2 



1 74 SUNDAY. 

And arm'd for vengeance, — who might stand 
Before each conquering red right hand ? 

He came not thus ; no earthquake shock 
Shivered the everlasting rock ; 
No trumpet blast, nor thunder peal, 
Made earth through all her regions reel ; 
And but for the mysterious voicing 
Of that unearthly quire rejoicing ; 
And but for that strange herald-gem, 
The star which burn'd o'er Bethlehem, 
The shepherds, on His natal morn, 
Had known not that their God was born. 
There were no terrors, for the song 
Of peace rose from the seraph throng ; 
On wings of love He came, to save, 
To pluck pale terror from the grave ; 
And on the bloodstain' d Calvary 
He won for man the victory. 

H. CARRINGTON. 



SUNDAY. 

day most calm, most bright, 
The indorsement of supreme delight, 
Writ by a Friend, and with His blood ; 
The couch of time ; care's balm and bay ; 
The week were dark but for thy light : 

Thy torch doth shew the way. 



SUNDAY. 175 

The other days and thou 
Make up one man, whose face thou art, 
Knocking at heaven with thy brow ; 
The working days are the back part ; 
The burden of the week lies there, 
Making the whole to stoop and bow, 

Till thy release appear. 

The Sundays of man's life, 
Threaded together on time's string, 
Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
Of the eternal glorious King. 
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope ; 
Blessings are plentiful and rife, 

More plentiful than hope. 

The rest of our creation 
Our great Redeemer did remove 
With the same shake which, at His passion, 
Did the earth and all things with it move. 
As Samson bore the doors away, 
Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our 
salvation, 

And did unhinge that day. 

The brightness of that day 
We sullied by our foul offence : 
Wherefore that robe we cast away, 
Having a new at His expense, 
Whose drops of blood paid the full price, 
That was required to make us gay, 

And fit for paradise. 



176 ANGELS. 

Thou art a day of mirth ; 
And where the week-days trail on ground, 
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth ; 
Oh, let me take thee at the bound, 
Leaping with thee from, seven to seven, 
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, 

Fly hand in hand to heaven ! 



ANGELS. 

And is there care in heaven ? and is there love 
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, 
That may compassion of their evils move ? 
There is : — else much more wretched were the 

case 
Of men than beasts: but, oh, the exceeding grace 
Of highest God, that loves His creatures so, 
And all His works with mercy doth embrace, 
That blessed angels He sends to and fro, 
To serve the wicked man, to serve his wicked foe! 

How oft do they their silver bowers leave 
To come to succour us that succour want ! 
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
The flitting skies like flying pursuivant, 
Against foul fiends to aid us militant ! 
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward, 
And their bright squadrons round about us plant; 
And all for love, and nothing for reward : 
Oh, why should heavenly God to men have such 
regard ! 



177 



THE LARK AND THE DOVE. 

They that are merry, let them sing, 
And let the sad hearts pray : 

Let those still ply their cheerful wing, 
And these their sober lay. 

So mounts the early warbling lark 

Still upward to the skies ; 
So sits the turtle in the dark, 

Amidst her plaintive cries. 

And yet the lark, and yet the dove, 
Both sing, though different parts ; 

And so should we, howe'er we move, 
With light or heavy hearts. 

Or rather, we should each essay, 

And our cross notes unite ; 
Both grief and joy should sing and pray, 

Since both such hopes invite, — 

Hopes that all present sorrow heal, 

All present joy transcend ; 
Hopes to possess, and taste, and feel 

Delights that never end. 



PART OF PSALM CXXXVII. 

By the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood, 
There we sate, and there we wept ; 



178 PSALM CXLVIII. 

Our harps, that now no music understood, 
Nodding on the willows, slept ; 
While unhappy, captiv'd we, 
Lovely Sion, thought on thee. 

They, they that snatch' d us from our country's 
breast, 
Would^have a song carv'd to their ears, 
In Hebrew numbers, then, (O cruel jest !) 

When harps and hearts were drown' d in 

tears : 
" Come," they cried, " come, sing and play 
One of Sion's songs to-day!" 

Sing ! — Play ! — to whom, ah ! shall we sing and 
play, 

If not, Jerusalem, to thee ? 
Ah, thee, Jerusalem ! Ah, sooner may 

This hand forget the mastery 

Of music's dainty touch, than I 

The music of thy memory. 

CRASHAW. 



PSALM CXLVIII. 

Ye who dwell above the skies 
Free from human miseries, 
You whom highest heaven embowers, 
Praise the Lord with all your powers. 
Angels, your clear voices raise, 
Him your heavenly armies praise ; 



PSALM CXLVIII. 179 

Sun, and moon with borrow' d light, 

All you sparkling eyes of night, 

Waters hanging in the air, 

Heaven of heavens His praise declare. • 

His deserved praise record, 

His who made you by His Word, 

Made you evermore to last, 

Set you bounds not to be past. 

Let the earth His praise resound, 

Monstrous whales and seas profound ; 

Vapours, Kghtnings, hail and snow, 

Storms which when He bids them blow ; 

Flowery hills and mountains high ; 

Cedars, neighbours to the sky ; 

Trees that fruit in season yield ; 

All the cattle of the field, 

Savage beasts, all creeping things, 

All that cut the air with wings ; 

You who awful sceptres sway, 

You inured to obey, 

Princes, judges of the earth, 

All of high and humble birth ; 

Youths and virgins flourishing 

In the beauty of your spring, 

You who bow with age's weight, 

You who were but born of late ; 

Praise His Name with one consent. 

Oh, how great ! how excellent ! 

Than the earth prof o under far, 

Higher than the highest star, 



180 CATECHISM. 

He will us to honour raise : 
You, His saints, resound His praise ; 
You who are of Jacob's race, 
* And united to His grace. 



SANDYS. 



CATECHISM. 

Oh, say not, dream not, heavenly notes 

To childish ears are vain ; 
That the young mind at random floats, 

And cannot reach the strain. 

Dim or unheard the words may fall, 
And yet the heaven-taught mind 

May learn the sacred air, and all 
The harmony unwind. 

Was not our Lord a little child, 
Taught by degrees to pray ; 

By father dear, and mother mild, 
Instructed day by day ? 

And lov'd He not of heaven to talk, 
With children in His sight ; 

To meet them in His daily walk, 
And to His arms invite ? 

What though around His throne of fire 

The everlasting chant 
Be wafted from the seraph-choir 

In glory jubilant ! 



CATECHISM. 181 

Yet stoops He, ever pleas' d to mark 

Our rude essays of love, 
Faint as the pipe of wakening lark, 

Heard by some twilight grove. 

Yet is He near us, to survey 

These bright and order' d files, 
Like spring- flow' rs in their best array, 

All silence and all smiles. 

Save that each little voice in turn 

Some glorious truth proclaims, 
What sages would have died to learn, 

Now taught by cottage dames. 

And if some tones be false or low, 

What are all pray'rs beneath 
But cries of babes, that cannot know 

Half the deep thoughts they breathe ? 

In His own words we Christ adore ; 

But angels, as we speak, 
Higher above our meaning soar 

Than we o'er children weak. 

And yet His words mean more than they, 

And yet He owns their praise : 
Why should we think He turns away 

From infants' simple lays ? 



182 



VENI CREATOR. 



Creator Spirit, by whose aid 

The world's foundations first were laid, 

Come, visit ev'ry pious mind ; 

Come, pour Thy joys on human kind; 

From sin and sorrow set us free, 

And make Thy temples worthy Thee. 

Source of uncreated light, 
The Father's promis'd Paraclete! 
Thrice-holy fount, thrice-holy fire, 
Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire ; 
Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, 
To sanctify us while we sing. 

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 

Rich in Thy sevenfold energy ! 

Thou strength of His almighty hand, 

Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command. 

Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 

"Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, 

And crown' st Thy gift with eloquence ; 

Refine and purge our earthly parts ; 
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! 
Our frailties help, our vice control, 
Submit the senses to the soul ; 
And when rebellious they are grown, 
Then lay Thine hand, and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 






DEPARTED SAINTS, 183 

And, lest our feet should step astray, 
Protect and guide us in the way. 
Make us eternal truths receive, 
And practise all that we believe ; 
Give us Thyself, that we may see 
The Father and the Son by Thee. 

Immortal honour, endless fame, 
Attend the Almighty Father's Name ; 
The Saviour Son be glorified, 
Who for lost man's redemption died; 
And equal adoration be, 
Eternal Paraclete, to Thee ! 

DRYDEN. 



FROM THE FUNERAL SERVICE. 

Man that is born of woman, short his time, 
And full of woe ! he springeth like a flower, 
Or like the grass, that, green at morning prime, 
Is cut and withereth ere the evening hour ; 
Never doth he continue in one stay, 
But like a shadow doth he pass away. 
Yet not for ever, Lord God most high ! 
Saviour ! yet not for ever shall we die ! 



CONTEMPLATION OF DEPARTED SAINTS. 

They are all gone into a world of light, 
And I alone sit lingering here ; 



184 THE DEAD. 

Their very memory is fair and bright, 
And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 

Or those faint beams with which yon hill is drest 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory, 
Whose light doth trample on my days ; 

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, 
Mere glimmerings and decays. 

Dear beauteous death, the jewel of the just, 
Shining no where but in the dark ; 

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 
Could man outlook that mark ! 

H. VAUGHAN. 



THE DEAD. 

Name them not dead — the faithful whom 

Green earth closed lately o'er ; 

Nor search within the silent tomb 

For those who " die no more." 

The cold earth hides them from our love, 

But not from His who pleads above. 

They passed, as all must pass, the deep 

Dread portals of the grave ; 
But not in dull decay they sleep 

Whom Jesus died to save. 



THE DEAD. 185 

To mortal eye their path is dim ; 
But 'tis enough — they rest in Him. 

We saw the momentary cloud, 

The pale eclipse of mind, 
From earthly sight that came to shroud 
The deathless ray behind : 
A moment more, the shade is gone, 
The sun, the spirit, burneth on. 

To die ! 'tis but to pass, all free, 

From Death's dominion here, — 
To burst the bonds of earth, and flee 
From every mortal fear, — 
To plunge within that gulf untried, 
And stand beyond it glorified. 

Thou weep' st— perchance they weep for thee, 

If heavenly tear can flow, 

To think of all the ills that be 

In this sad world below. 

Oh ! not for all its climes contain 

Would they return to earth again. 

Yet weep, for earth's a vale of care, 

And they who mourn are blest, 
If He who hears the mourner's prayer 
Send comfort to the breast : 
If hallowed hope break through the gloom, 
Earth hath no teacher like the tomb. 

IRISH PAPER. 



186 



SONNET. 



Rise, said the Master ; come unto the feast : — 
She heard the call, and rose with willing feet ; 
But thinking it not otherwise than meet 
For such a bidding to put on her best, 
She is gone from us for a few short hours 
Into her bridal-closet, there to wait 
For the unfolding of the palace-gate, 
That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. 
We have not seen her yet, though we have been 
Full often to her chamber-door, and oft 
Have listened underneath the postern green, 
And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and 

soft; 
But she hath made no answer, and the day 
From the clear west is fading fast away. 






, 



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♦ 













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